#these feelings come up unbidden and i start hating myself

[skitskatdacat63]

I wish I didn't feel horrific levels of insecurity/inferiority/jealousy/fomo/ego/etc etc about literally everything 24/7. I don't think I let it affect how I interact with people, but it's just this sickeningly insufferable feeling in my chest

[hippolotamus]

Fuck it Fraturday

Besties, it has been a day. I was tagged by the lovely @alyxmastershipper @spotsandsocks @ajunerose @elvensorceress and @shortsighted-owl 🥰 And, hey, it is still Friday... somewhere. As I went rummaging for this week's post I learned something about myself. Apparently I have a thing for starting mid-season spec fics, not finishing them, and naming them for Taylor Swift lyrics. So there's that useless trivia for you. Anyway, I cleaned up (to the best of my sleepy ability) my S5 offering I'm reaching for you, terrified

bon appetit, my loves 😘

I’m leaving the 118.

Buck has had his oxygen tank run out, he’s been caught in more natural disasters than he’d prefer, and trapped under a ladder truck. Among other things. Those agonizing memories pale in comparison to what he feels now, hearing Eddie’s announcement. He's a mix of breathless and numb and tingling pinpricks dancing over his skin. Of too much and not enough and loss. 

Eddie is… casual? Neutral? As if he’s told them he’s only leaving town for a few days, but he’ll be right back. Except – will he? Buck doesn’t know. 

For the span of a single heartbeat Buck hates Eddie with everything he can muster. If someone were to ask – in this infinitesimal moment in time – he would swear that he undeniably, viscerally hates him. It would only be true for that moment, of course. But also not true at all. Buck only believes it because he’s feeling trapped. Caught between containing his feelings in a twisted sense of maintaining decorum, and wanting to scream. A buildup of pressure that quickly manifests as shuddering breaths, wide eyes and trembling fists clenched at his side. 

Irrational as it may be, this is worse, he decides, than clawing at unforgiving mud. Worse than feeling Eddie’s still warm blood spatter on his skin. Worse than hearing Mitchell Trent’s gun fire without knowing who was on the receiving end. Those were all times Buck thought he could lose his best friend, but they were external forces. The result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time while doing their jobs. This, though… this is coming directly from Eddie. Eddie, who just moments ago, was hugging Bobby by the grill. 

A selfish stream of thoughts comes to his mind unbidden. Did Bobby know? Before now? He’s their captain, but why should he be the first to find out? Why does he get the news semi-privately and Buck learns alongside Hen? Maybe because you’ve been too busy playing the loving boyfriend to the first person to say ‘I love you’.

“E-Eddie?” Buck’s voice sounds far away, even to himself. It reminds him of how he would quietly seek out Maddie to patch up his latest injury before their parents could catch on.

“What-” A thousand questions, that he can’t seem to articulate with actual words, catch in his throat. Buck has to force himself to look at Eddie and hope his pleading gaze can ask for him. That’s when he finally sees it. The now obvious pain emanating from behind the mask of feigned indifference.

Then the words ‘for Christopher’ register. And Buck can’t believe he’s been so self-centered by not considering Chris before now. He’s overwhelmed with thoughts of inside jokes, endless optimism, baking experiments, movie nights, trips to the zoo and a smile that radiates pure fucking sunshine. 

Does Chris even know yet? Has Eddie considered that their dynamic might change? That schedules won’t align as perfectly, or interactions could become awkward if Eddie shuts himself off. 

Bobby and Athena, the enormous Christmas tree, Karen, Denny, Christopher… it all swirls into one blended image that has him swaying. He thinks someone shouts his name, sees Eddie reach out. His field of vision narrows, rapidly fading to black. The cool grass presses against his skin, until he’s not sensing anything at all.

*****

Buck blinks once, twice. He squints at the thin ray of sun that’s made its way through the crowd gathered around him. Hen, Bobby and Eddie hover overhead, poking, prodding, and performing a sternal rub.

“Ow!” 

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Hen says dryly, easing him back down when he tries to sit. “Stay still.”

“‘M fine.” He tries again, but a different hand – with a touch he would know if he were blind – firmly holds him in place.

“Buck?” Christopher sidles up next to Eddie, carefully lowering himself to the ground. “It’ll be okay. I can hold your hand if you want.” The words are so innocent, given so freely, Buck wants to cry. Instead, he sniffs and swallows down the emotions, taking Christopher’s small hand in his own. 

“Thanks, buddy. I’d like that.” Buck actively avoids looking at Eddie. It’s too much like staring at the sun on a cloudy day, muted but still overwhelming.

Christopher grasps Buck’s hand while Hen takes his vitals and verifies he’s okay. As okay as he’s going to be, anyway. 

“Alright, Buckaroo. Sit here for a few minutes. If you’re feeling stable then we’ll help you stand up.”

“Hen-” he starts to protest.

“I said what I said, Buckley. Don’t push it. I can just as easily turn this into IVs and recommend continuous monitoring.” 

“Aye aye, Dr. Wilson.” Buck lets out an exasperated sigh and lets Hen and Bobby help him sit. He’s still avoiding looking at Eddie even though he can feel the gaze boring into him. The crowd starts to dissipate, apparently satisfied that everything is fine. Christopher throws his arms around Buck, burying his face into his neck. 

“See, Buck? I told you it would be okay.”

“Never doubted you for a second, buddy.” He rubs his thumb back and forth, lets his fingers thread through Christopher’s curls, breathes in the warm comfort that never fails to slow his pulse and calm his nerves. 

“Hey, mijo? Let’s give Buck some air. I think he and I have some things to talk about.” 

“Okay, Dad.” Christopher reluctantly loosens his grip, but not before Buck presses a kiss into his hair and squeezes him tight before sending him on his way. 

Eddie reaches out, extending a hand for Buck to grab onto, like an anchor. When he stands, Buck simultaneously wants to run away and throw himself into Eddie like Christopher had done to him. He wants to storm off and be held while he falls apart against Eddie’s chest. Instead he wordlessly follows to the relative quiet of the street, sheltered behind Eddie’s truck. 

“Buck,” Eddie starts to say. Except Buck interrupts, too impatient and on edge to wait his turn.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Eds?”

Eddie stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the ground, scuffing his shoe against the street. He eventually meets Buck’s gaze and there’s no pretense there, no mask. Just Eddie. 

“Today was my first chance to talk to Cap about it. And I wanted to tell him first. Because I knew if I went to you first, you would talk me out of it. But,” – Eddie puts a hand on Buck’s shoulder and he’s not sure if it’s more for his own reassurance or Eddie’s – “you have to know this is for Christopher. I need him to know that he doesn’t have to worry about coming home one day to find out I’m not there. So he can stop having nightmares, and worrying that some lunatic is gonna take me out because they can’t handle their own shit.”

Bile creeps up Buck’s throat and Eddie’s hand feels less like a comfort and more like a crushing weight. Because he’s watched Eddie nearly die, wide-eyed and gasping for breath, and it could still happen somewhere else. Somewhere Buck can’t be to keep an eye on him, leap into action, make sure he’s safe. “Does Christopher know?”

“Not yet. I was going to tell him tonight.”

Buck nods slowly, grateful he isn’t the last person to find out. “And what about us?”

“What about-“ Eddie looks at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” Buck says, more defensive than he intends, “is you had this whole thing about the family you’re born into, and the family you choose. Made a big deal about promising we wouldn’t drift apart if we didn’t work together anymore. Can you still say that?” 

Eddie had friends in the Army, in Texas, that he never talks about. Who’s to say Buck, and the rest of the 118, won’t be replaced by whoever comes next? Eddie and Christopher have become a force in Buck’s life at least as strong as Bobby and Maddie. They’re part of a core group of people who look after him, care how he’s doing, and make sure he doesn’t fuck up too badly. They’re his family. Buck can’t lose them. He can’t.

“I did promise. And I meant it- I mean it. I’ll even—” Eddie pauses, huffing out a humorless laugh. “I’ll even pinkie promise if you want.”

Buck’s eyes widen as he gasps and lifts a hand to his chest like a scandalized maiden. “Pinkie promises are sacred, Eds.”

“I know. And you know I think they’re ridiculous. I am only doing this for you.” Eddie’s hand slides off Buck’s shoulder and he extends his little finger out as an offering.

Buck tentatively holds his own out, intertwining it with Eddie’s. They curl together and Buck can’t stop staring, committing the sight to memory. He wants the image branded into his mind until his heart beats for the last time, until he takes his final breath. Wants to remember this moment when Eddie swore he wouldn’t abandon him. 

Eddie pulls him into a hug, wrapping one hand around Buck’s waist, unwilling to let their pinkies separate. The gesture means more than Buck could ever put into words.

“What are we hugging about?!” Christopher barrels towards them as fast as his legs can carry him. Buck isn’t even sorry about the interruption. He welcomes it, knowing that having all three of them together can only make the moment more complete. Buck and Eddie part just enough to wrap him into the fold. 

Christopher throws one arm around each of them and Buck doesn’t think he’s ever felt this loved by anyone besides Maddie. His heart feels so full he thinks he might burst. He loves Christopher. He loves Eddie, has loved Eddie. In a way he’s always acknowledged as platonic, familial. He’s never allowed himself to think beyond that. There’s always been a reason to shut it down and not get his hopes up. Ali, Shannon, Ana, Taylor. 

Buck can’t even pinpoint when the lines began to blur between friend, family and more. Loving Eddie was a slow, creeping thing that wrapped around him, gradually entwining them together. Buck only realized once he was too attached to even entertain separating himself. Like ivy that climbs up a building, bonding to it so there’s a mark if it’s ever ripped away. 

He tells Taylor he loves her, but it’s not the same. Not like this. He remembers freezing the first time she said the words, unsure if it sounded wrong because it was coming from her, or because it was coming from anyone at all. Buck always imagined saying ‘I love you, too’ would be easy when someone finally admitted to loving him. And it is - easy. But at the same time it still feels foreign rolling off his tongue. Too practiced and eager.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs. “Do you want to be there tonight? When I tell him?”

Tears sting the corners of Buck’s eyes, already threatening to spill over. Of course he wants to be there. He always wants to be a part of anything with Chris and Eddie. His Diaz boys. But, this- this seems like a moment that should be between father and son. Too intimate for Buck to be involved. 

“Are you sure? I don’t think-“

“You don’t think what?” Eddie interjects. “That he won’t be texting or calling you the second we’re done talking? That he won’t ask what you think about all this? Don’t think. Just come. Please.” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose and furrows his brow – barely visible, like he didn’t want Buck to notice – and bites his bottom lip. “Unless you have… other plans. I should’ve asked first. Maybe you have something with...” He trails off, waving his hand dismissively.

“No,” Buck shakes his head adamantly, saving Eddie the trouble. “She can wait. I want to be there. For Christopher.”

“For Christopher,” Eddie repeats, nodding thoughtfully. 

“What’s for me?” The younger Diaz finally pipes up, eyes shining behind the glare of his glasses. 

“Uh, I’m coming over after the party to hang with you,” Buck says. “Obviously.”

Christopher whoops and pumps his fist in the air. “Are you staying to make pancakes in the morning?”

“If it’s okay with your dad.” Buck looks to Eddie, seeking permission he’s already 87% certain he’ll get.

Eddie studies him for a moment, as if he doesn’t understand why it would ever be an issue. Then he smiles, the stupidly fond private one he saves just for Buck and Chris. “Obviously,” he finally answers. 

Their embrace becomes more snug as Eddie exhales a content sigh and rests his forehead against Buck’s. It feels like home and safety. Like a place he could stay. Like a thing he could keep.

[aftermathfanfic]

Part 3, Chapter 5

Webby sat on one end of the table, staring awkwardly at the other side.

Lena sat on the other side, looking out the window with a pained expression.

Beside her sat Violet, calmly cutting apart a hamburger with a knife and fork.

They had met up at Betty’s Burgers, a restaurant that they had discovered a few years ago and taken a liking to. At the moment, only Violet had ordered something and was eating it slowly and coolly, as if oblivious to the silent tension between the other two.

Webby wasn’t. She’d already begun regretting not asking someone to come with her. A significant part of her wanted to stand up and bolt, flee from this place and just go home. The other part just wanted to be able to talk to her again, to hang out without a wall between them.

Unbidden, the memory of the kiss arose to the forefront of Webby’s mind. That stupid kiss.

“…Um…” Lena broke the silence, forcing herself to look across the table. “It’s, uh… it’s been a while.”

“…Yeah.” Webby replied quietly.

Lena seemed to struggle for a moment, her usual confidence and charisma nowhere to be seen. With a forced smile, she asked, “You, uh… you want something to eat? My treat?”

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Lena mumbled, looking away again.

Another moment of silence. Violet put down her cutlery for a moment, giving her adopted sister a pointed look.

“…Okay.” Lena sighed, turning back. “We gotta talk about this. We’ve been avoiding each other for two weeks, we gotta-”

“It’s okay.” Webby interrupted her. “I know, I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“No, you don’t have to apologise for anything.” Lena told her. “You weren’t-”

“I was being stupid. It was a stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.”

“No, you weren’t.” Lena said sternly. “You’re anything but stupid, Webby. You just… didn’t know.”

They were quiet for a moment longer. Lena, taking a deep breath, started to explain. “So… I’ve known that you had… feelings for me since the beginning. When you started stammering around me in ninth grade.”

“…Okay.” Webby said simply.

“And… I didn’t… I mean, I should’ve said something, there and then. I should’ve just told you, stopped you from getting your hopes up. If I did… you wouldn’t have done what you did in Paris.”

Webby remembered again at the mention of it. The tenderness that Webby had brushed her beak against Lena’s, immediately countered by the force by which Lena had pulled away. Something in her chest tightened.

“…And the reason that I didn’t was because… I… I was scared of how you’d react.” Lena forced herself to say. “You’re… you’re the first friend I ever made, I… I thought…” She scoffed at herself. “I dunno what I thought. That you’d hate me, or something stupid like that. So… I just kinda kept quiet… told myself that you’d grow out of it and forget about it… and until you invited me to Paris, I thought that you had, or… almost had.”

Grow out of it? How could she grow out of something like this? Just forget how she felt? How her heart pounded when she was close to her? She couldn’t just forget that. Even now, even as despair was choking her throat, she felt it. The affection she’d tried to hide for so long.

“…Did you know why I invited you?” Webby asked slowly, trying not to sound accusatory. “Did you know what I… wanted to tell you?”

“…I had a feeling.” Lena admitted.

“…And you came anyway?”

“I…” Lena sighed, shrugging. “I just… fuckin’ panicked. I didn’t want to say no, ‘cause you’d only just gotten back into adventuring and I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Lena looked away again, adding in a small voice, “…You’re the first friend I ever made. I… I was scared of losing that.”

Webby stared at her friend, understanding a little better. Softly, she said, “…Lena, I… I wouldn’t have hated you. I don’t hate you now.”

“…I know.” Lena replied. “I know that. I should’ve told you the moment I realised what was happening.”

You should have. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I’d known. I wouldn’t have humiliated myself if I’d known.

Webby kept quiet. She didn’t dare give a voice to her thoughts.

“…So… where do we go from here?” Lena asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… how do we get past this?” Lena clarified. “We’ve talked about it, but… how do you want to get back to normal?”

Webby didn’t want to go back to normal. She wanted to be able to hold Lena’s hand, to fall asleep leaning on her shoulder, to be able to reach up, take both sides of her face and…

Webby pushed those thoughts out of her head. Slowly, she responded, “…I… don’t want this to get in the way of what we have. You’re one of my oldest friends. It’s… silly, to let a mistake get in the way of that.”

“…So… do we…?”

“I think…” Webby decided. “I think, that… we just… keep being the same friends we’ve been the whole time.”

“Right, just…”

“It didn’t happen.”

“Yeah, like, not even hiding it, it just didn’t happen.”

“We’re still friends. Nothing’s changed, everything’s the same.”

“Yeah, exactly. Everything’s fine.”

Another awkward silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the clinking of Violet’s cutlery.

“…So… we’re good?” Lena asked hesitantly.

“Yeah.” Webby nodded, a bit too quickly. “Yeah, I… I think we’re good.”

“…You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay…” Lena slowly let herself smile, albeit carefully. “Okay, good, that’s… that’s good. So… I guess we’ll see each other…?” She hesitated, then said hastily, “I mean, I don’t wanna look like I’m running away, but… like, do you wanna hang out a little longer, or…?”

“Yeah.” Webby replied with a tired smile, nodding again. “I mean… we’ve talked about it, we’ve moved on… let’s just hang out.”

“Okay, yeah, awesome!” Lena declared, starting to stand up. “In that case, let’s start by grabbing-”

Without looking, Violet swiftly thrusted her elbow out, jabbing Lena in the ribs before she got a chance to leave. Lena gasped and dropped back in the chair, rubbing her side in pain and glaring daggers at her sister. Webby blinked in confusion, looking between the two as her smile flickered away.

“…Okay.” Lena muttered reluctantly. “…While I’m being honest… there’s something else I haven’t told you.”

Webby stared at her.

“The girl that called me on the plane. Helen. She’s… a bit more than a friend to me.”

“…Like… a best friend?” Webby asked cautiously.

“…A bit more than that.”

Webby looked down at the table, slowly blinking as she realised what Lena meant.

“…Oh.” She said blankly.

There was a moment of tense silence.

“…How long have you been seeing her?” Webby asked.

“…We started dating last November. So…” Lena looked up at the ceiling as she answered, murmuring in surprise, “Shit, about five months now.”

“…Five… five months?” Webby murmured, not looking up at her. “That’s… a long time.”

“Look, I know that this is a big thing to keep from you,” Lena said quickly. “And I know that you hate it when people keep secrets from you, but I didn’t know how you’d react, and the longer I-”

“No, it’s fine.” Webby interrupted her. “It’s… I get it. It’s fine.”

“…So, we’re cool?”

“…Yeah.” Webby replied quietly, looking down at the table.

“…Okay. If you’re sure.” Lena replied, clearly not believing her. She stood up from the table and said, “I’m just gonna order a drink. I’ll be back in a sec.”

As Lena left, Webby suddenly asked, “Lena? What… what’s she like?”

Lena stopped and turned around. “Helen? Uh… well, she’s smart. Creative. She’s an awesome artist, she’s got a lot of, like, really ‘out-there’ ideas… she’s really into Japanese stuff, and she’s got this beautiful tattoo on her arm of, like, crashing waves and stuff… I think you’d like her.”

“Yeah. She sounds nice.” Webby said softly.

Lena gave her friend a wary smile, though Webby could see the anxiety in her eyes. Then, she turned around and made her way toward the counter, joining a line of people waiting to order. Webby watched her friend leave, not taking her eyes off of her.

After a moment, she slowly turned to face Violet, who was carving apart her burger as best as she could with her plastic utensils.

“…I’m sorry, Webbigail.” Violet said quietly. “I know how much she means to you.”

Webby stared back, her unhappy expression and mournful eyes turning into an angry glare, directed right at her.

“You knew.” Webby said, her tone making it an accusation.

“…I did.”

“And you didn’t say anything.”

“It wasn’t my place to meddle with your relationship. And I didn’t want to give Lena the easy way out. It was her relationship with you, so she had to be the one to tell her. I’m… sorry if I’ve unwittingly upset you, but I promise you that it is better this way.”

“…Okay. Makes sense.” Webby muttered, leaning back in her chair and going back to watching Lena.

Her hand clenched into a tight fist in her lap, almost unconsciously.

---------------------------------------------

After an excruciatingly tense bus ride together, Chanda and Louie arrived in Cilantro, a suburb that lay at the foot of the northern cliffs, atop of which were the Rockerduck Estates. Unlike the wealthier neighbourhood that loomed above, Cilantro was run-down and clearly impoverished. Louie felt even more uneasy here than he was in the previous suburb, particularly because he knew that the Beagle Boys junkyard was just a couple of districts away, so he kept his hood up and tried not to look at anyone.

Chanda led him through the streets, past corner shops devoid of customers, past houses with faded and cracking paint, and past an old sports field filled with caravans, acting as makeshift homes for the families within. Louie slowed and stopped for a moment, seeing a trio of young ducks playing with a soccer ball outside one of these caravans, their mother watching them from a lawn chair.

When the woman looked over at Louie, he hastened his walk and looked away.

“Feeling uncomfortable, McDuck?” Chanda asked, looking over her shoulder at him.

“It’s just ‘Duck’.” Louie muttered in reply. “And of course I am, you seeing this place? I feel like I’m going to get shanked or mugged any second.”

Chanda didn’t reply. She just gave him a cold glare before returning her attention to the path.

Eventually, the two of them arrived at a very old white house sitting in the middle of a field of overgrown grass. A tall chain-link fence surrounded the property, though a large gap had been made in the fence, rendering the barrier pointless. A large white sign hung on the fence, displaying a warning in large red font that read ‘CONDEMNED’.

“Oh, yeah. This looks legit.” Louie said sarcastically. “Who exactly are you taking me to again?”

Chanda let out a reluctant sigh. “Do you remember when you asked me where I’d gotten the medicine from before?”

“…Yeah?”

“This is where I got it from. The guy we want is in there.”

She ducked down and crawled through the gap in the fence without waiting for Louie to reply. He didn’t follow her at first, staring at her in horror, then looking around wildly for anyone who was watching them. Seeing no-one, he swore under his breath and followed her through the fence.

They waded through the grass towards the house, which looked less and less safe the closer Louie got to it. The windows were shattered, the wooden beams were eaten by rot, and it looked like the roof had fallen through in one part of the homestead. Louie briefly entertained the thought of cutting his losses and running, but the promise of getting the effigy back kept him moving forward.

“Keep an eye out for glass.” Chanda warned him as they were halfway through. “People sometimes chuck bottles over here.”

“Oh… fuck’s sake.” Louie growled, slowing down and trying to peer at the ground past the grass. “I think I get why Lena wears shoes now.”

They arrived at the front door, covered in graffiti and scratch marks. As Chanda tried the door, which proved to be locked, Louie’s gaze flicked upwards to notice something above the door frame that didn’t fit with the rest of the scene – a black glass orb, in which he could see the lenses of a camera. The device blinked a small red light at him, and Louie knew that the person on the other end was watching.

He glared at the camera, forcing his nervousness down.

Crack!

Louie jumped at the sound. Chanda had rammed her shoulder against the door, wrenching it from the lock and causing it to swing inside, revealing a corridor of peeling wallpaper, loose floorboards, and cobwebs.

“Okay.” Louie muttered anxiously. “Break down a drug dealer’s front door. Great idea.”

Chanda didn’t answer him, marching into the abode with a fierce look on her face. She looked over her shoulder once, telling Louie, “Wait here. I’ll bring him out.”

“So some passer-by can notice me hanging outside a crack den? No thanks.” Louie shot back, stepping in with her. “Besides, I’m at this guy’s mercy either way. No point not coming in.”

Chanda frowned, but didn’t say anything. She turned back and proceeded deeper into the house, shouting out, “Hey! Where are you? You know why I’m here, stop hiding!”

Louie closed the door behind him as best he could, then turned and walked into a nearby room. It was abandoned, save for an ancient-looking diner table, and had one other entrance into a kitchen area. He looked around, scanning the ceiling for any more security cameras. Once he was certain that he wasn’t being watched, he pulled out his phone and immediately scrolled through his contacts. Fuck this, he thought. If he was going to be at the mercy of someone dangerous, he would call someone equally dangerous.

He reached May’s entry in his contacts. Just as he was about to call her, something on the dining table caught his attention. Something glimmering. His eyes glanced over to see what looked to be a yellow metal loop sitting on the table. Frowning, he slowly approached it, seeing that the band was made of gold and that a piece of it had broken off, leaving the loop incomplete.

He hesitated as he reached out to take it, which was nothing new. Since the incident in Mexico, even the sight of gold was enough to make him flinch. But this was a different kind of foreboding, he thought as he examined the loop. It was featureless with no engravings, and it was made of pure, 24-carat gold, just like…

You are home, friend present.

Louie’s eyes widened. “Wait…”

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

Louie yelled in fright, spinning around and falling over. The gold band flew out of his hands as he fell, soaring through the air above him.

The hand that caught the band was that of a pudgy white duck, dressed in black shorts, a green polo and an open white blazer – the uniform of Beakston Grammar school. Though his outfit was different and he seemed trimmer than Louie remembered, there was no mistaking the oversized glasses and combed-over tuft of feathers of…

“Oh, God, no!” Louie gasped in horror.

“Hello, Llewellyn.” Doofus Drake replies with a calm, unconcerned smile. “It’s been a while.”

“No!” Louie yelled, backing up into the table in a blind panic. “No, no, no! I’ve been leaving you alone, I haven’t talked to you in years, what do you-!”

“Hey!”

Louie looked over towards the entrance to the room. Chanda was standing in the door, glaring directly at Doofus Drake.

“Where is it?” She demanded angrily.

Louie slowly turned back to stare at Doofus.

“Hmm…” Doofus hummed innocently. “To what do you refer to?”

“The statue thing, bhosdike!” Chanda growled stomping into the room. “You’re the one who put me up to this, you’re the only other person who could’ve known about it!”

“…What?” Louie said faintly.

“Well, now that you mention it, I have recently come into possession of a new toy that sounds like what you’re talking about.” Doofus drawled, walking away from Louie as he did. “Let me see if I can find it for you…”

He walked around the table and into another room, his pristine school uniform clashing violently with the decrepit surroundings. Louie shakily got back up on his feet, staring at Doofus as he disappeared through the doorframe, the urge to run for it stronger than ever.

Then, he whirled around to Chanda, snarling furiously, “How the hell do you know Doofus Drake?”

“…It’s complicated.” Chanda muttered, not meeting his gaze.

Louie spluttered feverishly, gesturing wildly in the direction that Doofus had disappeared to. “How do you get Doofus Drake complicated?” He demanded.

“We met through my… liaisons at her school.” Doofus’s voice floated through from the other room, taking their attention. “She bought my wares through them, and when they were sadly expelled, she decided to buy from me directly. Simple, really.”

Louie stared at him for a moment, running his hands through his headfeathers. “…Oh my God, he’s a drug dealer now.” He whispered. He swung back around to Chanda. “Why would you buy drugs from Doofus Drake?”

“I didn’t know!” Chanda protested angrily. “Even if I did, I didn’t have a choice! You-!”

Whatever argument Chanda was going to shoot back at him was interrupted by Doofus re-entering the room, holding up a small rectangular object in his hand. “Here it is. Or the photo, anyway.”

He put the picture on the table, letting Louie and Chanda get a good look at it. In the photo was a mass of bubble wrap, within which they could faintly see a blue statuette in the shape of a sarcophagus.

“…You fucker…” Chanda muttered, her hands gripping the edges of the table in fury. Louie just stared at the photo silently, yet to come to grips with the situation he’d found himself in.

“I am sorry, Chanda,” Doofus said insincerely. “I know this was a bit earlier than I planned, but I simply couldn’t have either of you absconding with something so valuable.”

“I was doing the fucking job!” Chanda snapped at him. “I wasn’t going to run with it, I was only getting ten percent!”

“Mm, you’re annoyed. I see that. Here…”

He reached into his blazer, pulling out a thickly-packed envelope and tossing it towards her. Chanda caught it, fumbling a bit as she did. She stared at Doofus, then down at the package, then back to him.

“There you go. Nine-hundred-and-ten dollars.” Doofus told her. “As we agreed. Feels much better, doesn’t it? You can go now.”

“But-”

“But nothing.” Doofus interrupted her, sounding bored. “Job’s done. If I have something else for you to do, I’ll tell you.”

Chanda was quiet. She didn’t look at Doofus or at Louie. She just stared at the bottle in her hands.

Then, she shoved it into her pocket and turned away, walking out of the room. Louie watched her leave, dumbfounded by this turn of events.

“I apologise for this… unexpected meeting, Llewellyn.” Doofus said, returning Louie’s attention to him. “I would have just asked to talk, but I assumed you’d ignore the invitation… not unlike you did to my birthday invites.”

Louie heard the front door open and close shut. He was back in a situation he’d sworn he’d never be in again – alone in a room with Doofus Drake.

“…You sent Chanda to work for me?” Louie said slowly. “So she could lure me here?”

“Correct.” Doofus replied with a smile.

“Okay… why?” Louie asked, deciding to unpack that later. “‘Cause after our last encounter, I had assumed that we were square.”

“And we are. Well, for the most part. There’s still one thing that you owe me.”

“…And that is?”

Doofus smiled disconcertingly at him. “Why, the other half of my fortune, of course. You remember what you apologised for, don’t you? The day of my eleventh birthday?”

Louie nodded cautiously. “…Yeah.”

“I’ll admit, at the time I was… upset.” He said quietly, his composure slipping for a moment as his eye twitched. He began pacing around the table as he resumed, “…But eventually, I came to realise that my grandmother – unintentionally, mind – had stifled me by granting her fortune to me. The money to buy anything I fancied, whenever I wanted… it sucked the joy out of life. Ever since I lost the fortune, I’ve found joy in things that would have just bored me before! It was like I was seeing colour return to the world, after so long of everything being grey! Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He turned towards Louie, now standing on the opposite side of the table with his hand out towards him. Louie opened and closed his beak a couple of times, before admitting, “You’ll have to repeat all that again, I was too distracted by how much more… verbose you are than I remember.”

“I’ve had four years of private school tutoring.” Doofus replied. “Another thing I wouldn’t have experienced if it weren’t for you. I’ve learned now that I have to build my fortune. Piece by piece, until I have earned what I lost. And you are going to help me do just that.”

“…Okay. I’m… with you so far.” Louie said slowly, still wary. “Though, if all you want is for me to help you make money, this feels like a very convoluted way to ask for it.”

“I felt you would not have met with me willingly.” Doofus said flatly.

“…I probably wouldn’t have, no.”

“Originally, I just wanted your help building my little… ‘business venture’ here. But I see now that will be a waste of your talents.” Doofus walked forward and jabbed at the photo between them. “Your expertise lies in retrieving items like this, doesn’t it.”

Louie raised an eyebrow. “You… want me to get artifacts for you?”

“Indeed.” Doofus replied with a satisfied smile. “Ones that are just as valuable as this one, obviously.”

Louie rubbed the back of his head, frowning awkwardly. “Huh, I dunno, man. That thing was kinda hard to get… plus it was a one-time thing, so…”

“Oh, you’ll figure out a way.” Doofus replied, unfazed. “Besides, if you can’t get something on your adventures, I’m sure your uncle wouldn’t notice if one of his little treasures went… missing.”

Yes, he would, Louie thought to himself. Feigning reluctance, he said, “Eh… I guess so… either way, if you want me to get stuff that’s worth just as much as that thing,” He pointed at the photo. “Then you’ll need something more valuable to hold over my head.”

“Hold over…? Ah. There’s some confusion.” Doofus shook his head, smiling. Pointing to the statue, he explained, “You’re not getting this back. It’s mine now.”

“…Okay, well if that’s the case, then you can get fucked.” Louie shot back angrily. “I’m not sticking around for this. You don’t get to steal my stuff and then demand my help!”

“Oh really?” Doofus asked with a nasty smile. “Well, how about this? I have plenty more associates outside of Chanda, some of whom go to your school. Some of whom might figure out your locker combination and deposit a little… package for you.”

“You-!”

“If you help me, then you can continue with your life as normally as ever. All it’ll cost you is a single, little treasure each month, procured any way you see fit. Don’t…” Doofus’s face turned menacing. “…And you’ll have to explain how a pound of cannabis magically appeared inside your locker.”

Louie leant over the table, staring at the photo before him. He didn’t say anything. He just glowered at the face carved onto the statuette, which looked back impassively behind a barrier of glossy photo paper.

“So, old friend. What’s your choice?” Doofus asked.

“…It doesn’t seem like I have one, bud.” Louie replied through gritted teeth.

“Ah, good. You’re already learning.” Doofus extended his hand out with a smile. “Welcome to Drake Acquisitions.”

---------------------------------------------

“I understand your trepidations, but a public statement might be what we need to put out this fire.”

The limousine bounced over a bump in the road. Scrooge ignored the momentary jostling, head buried behind a newspaper, as he replied grimly, “Or it could just add more fuel to it. I still say we keep our mouths shut until things quieten down a bit.”

The spotted face of Mr Gnollic glared at Scrooge coldly from the limo’s video monitor. “Again, our PR team does not recommend that strategy. Complete silence from the company makes it look like we’re apathetic to the situation in Paris – and by extension, you’re made to look uncaring regarding the situation you created. You have to say something.”

Scrooge lowered the newspaper heatedly, snapping ag Gnollic, “Uncaring? I’m payin’ for the damages to the city, aren’t I? How’s that for uncaring?”

“Perhaps you could mention that in your press release tomorrow.”

Scrooge groaned, massaging his temples. “Urgh. Gnollic, you know I’m not the picture of grace when I’m up against journalists, I’ll be just as likely to make the situation worse. Where did all this hostility come from, anyhow? Between the beanstalk and the Shadow War, my adventures have done far worse to Duckburg than this.”

“But not to Paris.” Gnollic reminded him. His eyes narrowed as he said, “And in case you’ve forgotten, our business operations are not limited to Duckburg.”

Scrooge leant forward, looking out the window as the scenery sped past. “…Fine. I’ll do it.” He agreed reluctantly.

“Finally.” Gnollic muttered. “We’ll schedule the release for tomorrow, ten A.M. You’ll find the script in your email. Memorise your lines before then.”

“Aye.”

The monitor turned itself off.

Scrooge gripped his cane, twisting the head in his hands. He understood why he had to say something, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He hated being on camera, always had. He consistently made a damn fool out of himself whenever he was on television, and the media was far too happy to oblige. He couldn’t see how a press conference could be anything but disastrous.

…But, Gnollic was right. He couldn’t sit in silence, either.

You can’t say anything. What if they find out about Glomgold?

He winced. Of course, his headache was choosing to flare now.

The limousine came to an abrupt halt, though Scrooge became accustomed to that a long time ago. The divider screen to the driver’s seat lowered down, and Launchpad’s friendly face leaned in to declare, “Back home safe and sound, Mr McD!”

“Thank you kindly, Launchpad.” Scrooge replied, opening the door and stepping out. As he did, he asked, “Don’t suppose you’d be able to pick the kids up as well, would yeh?”

“Sorry, no can do.” Launchpad shook his head. “I’ve got an urgent… um… doctor’s appointment in Saint Canard’s. Involving doctors. And in no way shape or form involving Darkwing Duck.”

“…Alright.” Scrooge said with a shrug, exiting the vehicle.

He walked up to the front door of his manor, Launchpad speeding off in a cloud of dust as he did. He’d have to ask Bentina to help him prepare for tomorrow, something he was dreading just as much as the conference itself. He opened the door and stepped inside, looking around the spacious great hall of the mansion.

He slowed to a stop halfway through the room, an odd sensation crawling up his spine.

Something was wrong.

“…Beakley? Della?” He called out, walking up the stairs. “Donald?”

No response. He gripped his cane tightly as he ascended, keeping a sharp eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

Something’s happened. You have to do something.

Scrooge rubbed his temples, hissing in pain, before continuing to ascend the stairs. “Hello?” He called out as he marched through the house, picking up pace now. “Anyone?”

As he explored the rooms, he passed through the dining room, the piles of maps, guides and books still present near the head. He gave it a glance as he walked past, then continued towards the kitchen.

Then he stopped.

And he backed up.

One of the books was missing.

The house has been compromised. Someone’s been in here.

He started rifling through the pile, ignoring his headache and trying to see if anything else was missing. The book that was missing was the text on the Knights Templar and their alleged worship of the entity Baphomet, along with several research notes regarding their possession of a silver idol of said deity – the text on Donald and Daisy’s adventure.

He found something as he was searching, hidden underneath a stack of books. Something that definitely wasn’t there before. He pulled it out, seeing that it was a note, and he read it.

Thanks for figuring out where the Baphomet’s Idol was for me, Scroogie! Meet you in Portugal!             – Goldie

p.s. You need to get better locks. The ones you have were far too easy to pick.

“…Goldie?” Scrooge murmured in disbelief.

His temple erupted in intense pain. He clutched his head, dropping the note and his cane, as a wave of memories came flooding back.

Perfectly understandable. Just so long as I-

We’re still getting that scroll, Scroogie. I could use-

He stumbled away from the table, looking around wildly. Was Goldie here? Why was she going after this idol? What happened to his family?

Aha! There it is! In the middle of that-

Should’ve known it would’ve been guarded! Keep your-!

The medicine. He needed to take the medicine. It felt like there was a dagger piercing through his head, his vision was turning pink, he had to take the medicine.

Don’t lose your-!

Well, it’s hardly my fault that-!

Aim for the joints! It’s an automaton, it’s-!

He knew what was happening. He couldn’t let them see him like this. He fumbled around in his coat pockets, even as he was losing balance…

SCROOGE!

He collapsed.

[itstuesdayidontknow]

once again this blog is my fanfiction diary

if i post about something that makes me self-conscious i will feel less self-conscious about it

They’ve played this game before, and it ends the way it always does: with one of them pinned to the bed. This time it’s Alicent doing the pinning and Rhaenyra looking up at her, pouting. “You’re manhandling me,” she says, making no move to work her wrists out of Alicent’s grip.

“I thought you like being manhandled. You used to beg for it, remember? And you went through that whole phase of trying to make Daemon wrestle with you no matter how many times he told you he was too big.”

“He doesn’t tell me that now.” Rhaenyra moves until her knee is between Alicent’s legs. “And he’s bigger than he was back then.”

Alicent grinds against Rhaenyra without thinking about it first. [rephrase] She’s right, he is bigger: broader, thicker. The first night they were here Alicent went downstairs to get a bottle of water after Viserys went to bed, she saw them together, Rhaenyra curled up in Daemon’s lap with his huge hand on her belly, completely enveloping it, and Alicent started to blush even though neither of them noticed her. “I guess that’s true,” she says, lying through her teeth; of course she noticed, of course she’s thought about it, if Rhaenyra used to strain to take three of Alicent’s fingers how hard would she have to work to take him?

“I know you’ve noticed.” Rhaenyra grins. “Like watching me fucking myself but bigger, isn’t that what you said before?”

Alicent shoves her away. “Fuck you. If he told you everything I said why did you need me to tell you?”

“I wanted to hear it from you.”

“So I could humiliate myself in front of both you?” Alicent doesn’t know if she hates it or not: the idea of Daemon and Rhaenyra talking about her, twin heads bent together, near-identical laughter. 

“No one’s humiliating anyone.” Rhaenyra props herself up on her elbows, suddenly serious. “I liked it. He liked it. If we all liked it—”

Liking things, wanting them and then admitting it—it’s terrifying and awful. Alicent has always assumed that she was alone in this feeling, and she almost liked it better that way. Being alone in a feeling was safe, even if it was also horrible; this is horrible but not safe, like falling off the edge of some vast precipice with no assurance of an easy landing. Alicent kisses Rhaenyra to make her stop talking, to make all of this less frightening. 

Rhaenyra opens up easily—to Alicent’s tongue in her mouth, to Alicent’s hand between her legs. “You used to be tighter,” Alicent murmurs into Rhaenyra’s neck. “Have you been letting him fuck you right down the hall from your dad?”

“Maybe.” Rhaenyra opens her legs a little wider, easy like she always is when she’s getting what she wants. “Sometimes I fall asleep with him still inside me, too.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

Rhaenyra laughs. “Don’t be silly. I’m used to it, I like it.” 

“It’s just hard to imagine.” Alicent crooks her fingers, feeling herself clenching down on nothing at the sight of Rhaenyra’s hips moving as she slowly, slowly fucks herself on Alicent’s hand. [rephrase]

“Are you imagining it?” Rhaenyra’s voice is nearly all breath, now. “The first time—the first time it hurt, it took ages for him to get in me, but now I fit him like a glove.”

Alicent’s thoughts drift, unbidden, to her father. He would hate everything about this, he would hate her for doing it. If he doesn’t hate her already. If there was ever anything she could do or be to make him not hate her. She tried so hard, chewed herself bloody trying, but in the end it never worked; she was a lost cause the first time Rhaenyra ever touched her, or before that, even, and it’s so much better to be here, now, relaxing into that truth instead of running away from it.

She thrusts harder into the place that Daemon has opened up, into the place that is familiar and also not, until she makes Rhaenyra come, growing wetter herself at the sound of Rhaenyra’s breathy little noises muffled into her neck and the feeling of Rhaenyra’s nails raking down her neck and back. 

[when-its-all-too-much]

how do i explain that nothing is wrong other than i am no longer fine. nothing happened. an invisible crutch slipped in my mind, a chemical balance shifted to unbalanced. the days passed too quick, too slow. that precarious line crossed. it is everything.

yesterday was okay and now today is not because i can no longer pull myself together enough to function. it lasts a day; it lasts a lifetime. i swallow my meds down each morning and wonder when they'll start working enough to make me feel normal again. but normal ended a decade ago and i don't think i'll ever get it back. i despise myself for it.

i lie on the floor because my bed is unmade and it is cold and hard. i stare at my phone taking nothing in, letting the videos rot my brain until nothing is left. i wish that if i opened my eyes again it will be okay again but it never is.

the sun shines outside my window, melting ice drops from the trees and it laughs in the face of my misery. if i had the energy i'd go down to the beach and stare at the waves as icy wind whipped my face. maybe then i'd feel more alive. maybe it would remind me that today is not the end of the world.

if i had more energy i'd go say hi to my bunny but she is downstairs and undoubtedly sleeping. she would ignore me and i would go back to my room dejected. they say people feel loved by their pets but i do not. the dog traumatized her and she has not yet forgiven me. i understand and i hate her for it, but how can you hate an animal that is just following her instincts. she will never love me the way i wish she could. it is my own fault i am let down by it.

on the good days it does not bother me. today is not a good day.

my mother asks if i'm okay, concerned. i am nonverbal; i say nothing. the words get choked in my throat and i shrug instead because it is all too vulnerable for a tuesday morning. she makes an excuse and leaves me on the floor. i do not want to see her. watching her walk away feels worse.

my dad pushes our departure time back an hour and i stare at him as if this is news. the laundry didn't get put in in time, he says, as if it is all my fault, and i fight the urge to yell or scream or cry. no sound would come out even if i did. he is in a rush and i do not know why. nothing waits for me at home. i wish to go back to school, where at least i could suffer by myself.

i force myself up and finish packing. my dad will try to talk to me in the car and i will offer him one word answers and soon enough he will give up. i will force myself to empty the car and then hide in my room until it all stops feeling like too much but i know it won't, not today.

it's not sustainable and i know that but how do you fix the unbidden thing in your head that dictates life is suddenly not okay anymore. how do you get up when the entire world feels like it's weighing you down.

the cycle will continue and i will be left wondering if this will ever truly go away.

most of the time i do not think it will. i have been fooled too many times before.

the letdown is worse each time.

one day maybe i will expect it.

but probably not.

[george-weasleys-girl]

North Star Series

Chapter 6 - Family Affairs (Part 2)

Warnings: cursing, feelings of inadequacy, neglect, fear of abandonment, depression, angst to fluff to hinting at more angst

Summary: George opens up about his greatest fear.

Start Here:

~•~

'I'm terrified of being alone.' Words George had never uttered to a soul. Not to Fred. Not even to himself. Now, here he was blurting it out to someone he'd only met two months ago. There was just something about this girl that compelled him to divulge all his secrets. She didn't even have to ask, he just spewed them out at random without much thought. He usually didn't mind, but this time was different.

He pasted on a smile when Y/N tilted her head up to look at him. She narrowed her eyes. "Do you wanna talk?" Y/N asked, echoing his question from earlier.

George looked away, his mind racing. 'No. I don't even want to think about it. Can't we just talk about your problems some more or my new prank idea? I'm really good at that sort of thing.'

"Yeah." He clenched his fists, nails digging into his flesh as the word fell unbidden from his lips.

Sitting up, Y/N turned to face him, criss-crossing her legs. George mirrored her position so that they were facing each other, knees touching, hands clasped.

"Alright, lay it on me." She smiled.

"It's stupid."

"I doubt that."

"It could take a while."

Y/N shrugged. "I've got all night. All weekend if needs be."

'I suppose if I've come this far...'

George took a deep breath and began.

"It's not so much being alone. I mean, well, it is. But it's not--." George winced at his muddled mess of words. Y/N squeezed his hands. "It's ok, take your time."

He took a shaky breath and started again. "I--It's being left behind that scares me. Everyone I care about leaving me or just forgetting about me."

Y/N tilted her head, leaning closer to him. "How could--what makes you think you're so easily forgettable? I don't think Fred would ever leave you behind."

"Well, no. But, eventually he'll get married and have a family and they'll be more important. That's the way it should be. And I'll--" George paused and glanced toward the boy's dormitory. "Of the two of us, Fred's the more popular one, the charismatic one. He's the one that draws the crowds. I love my brother and I love being one half of the notorious Weasley twins, but we're notorious only because of him. I just ride around on his coat-tails." George let out a long sigh. "Sometimes I feel like the only reason people hang out with me or like me is because I'm Fred's twin. No one likes me for myself." He turned away from Y/N to watch the fire. "Do you know why I hate dating?"

Y/N shook her head. George stood up, pacing back and forth, fidgeting with his fingers. He never wanted to dump all this on her, but now that he'd started talking, he couldn't stop.

"Every girl I go out with expects me to be just like Fred. A few have even called me Fred on dates. Do you have any idea what that's like? It's fucking humiliating." He looked down, shoulders slumping. "I just laugh it off, but it hurts. It hurts that people see me as Fred's spare part and not an actual human being with a name." He flopped back down on the sofa.

"I'm the third wheel. Nothing more than an afterthought. How long before I'm cast off completely?" George mumbled, his chin trembling. "I'm afraid I'll end up alone and I don't want to be alone. I need someone, but nobody needs me."

A crack formed in Y/N's heart. 'So much sadness hidden behind that beautiful smile.' She placed her hand over his fidgeting fingers. "Do you know how I can always tell you and Fred apart?"

George shook his head, gaze cast downward.

"It's your eyes. The way they shine when you laugh or the way they twinkle when you're up to something. Your heart and your fire radiate through them. It was your eyes that pulled me in on that first day. I was drawn to you, George. Not Fred. From that first moment, I knew you were going to be someone very special to me. There is no way in hell I could ever forget you or leave you behind."

He continued to look down, but she saw a small grin creep across his face.

"You know what else?" He side-eyed her, shaking his head again.

"Your eyes are prettier, too."

His grin turned into a chuckle. "Of course they are, I keep telling Fred I'm better looking than him." George's smile lit up his eyes. "Now, I have proof."

She squeezed his hands and giggled. "Ok, crazy question time. Would you like to cuddle?"

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as that familiar warmth suffused him. "More than anything."

Y/N smiled and stood, pulling him up with her. She scooted past him to lay down on the sofa, then held out her arms. He sank down, melting into the sanctuary of her embrace, his head nestled on her chest, the beat of her heart lulling him to sleep.

~•~

Fred rolled over, his bleary eyes glancing over at George’s bed. Empty. He sat up, squinting at the clock. 4:17 am. Fred sighed and shuffled out into the common room.

He froze at the sight before him. His eyes were riveted on his twin and Y/N snuggled up together, sound asleep on the sofa.

'Dammit George. What the fuck are you doing?'

~•~

*If you'd like to be added to the taglist, let me know*

~•~

Next Chapter:

[one-boring-person]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write more for Dutch from Predator? Lol it's me btw! I was wondering if it could be a hate to love relationship, where Dutch, being the hardass he is, can't live down his pride, and the reader (preferably female), is a strong independent woman who is actually Poncho's little sister, learning from the best. To add on, can the reader be short as Arnie is so tall, and because I am only 5'2" irl?

I kind of combined this with the enemies-to-lovers prompt request, I hope that's ok! I hope you like this!😊💛

Old Habits Die Hard.

Alan "Dutch" Schaefer (Predator 1987) x reader

Warnings: NSFW, smut, swearing, mention of violence, alcohol consumption

Masterlist

"This round's on me, what does everyone want?" Mac announces as we go to sit down at the table, the mercenary remaining standing.

"A beer sounds good." Poncho says, looking at the rest of us.

We give words of agreement, taking our respective places at the table as Mac goes to leave the room and go to the bar.

"Don't forget a soda, I don't think they sell alcohol to underage people here." Dutch chips in, flashing a pointed look in my direction.

"Very funny." I roll my eyes, forcing a smile as the others chuckle, "A beer is fine, Mac. Thanks."

He nods, ducking from the room we rented out for the evening, leaving the five of us alone.

"So what's all this about, Dutch? Got us another job?" Blain questions, the gruff man leaning back in his chair, jaw working languidly at the gunk in his mouth.

"Yeah, but this one's a bit different." The major replies, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it.

"Different? How?" Hawkins frowns, cokcing his head to the side.

Dutch takes a deep breath of smoke from the cigar, sitting back in his seat.

"An old friend from the army got in touch. Says he needs us for a rescue op."

"Friend from the army? Who?" I inquire, lifting an eyebrow.

"Old commander of mine." Dutch replies dismissively, barely sparing me a glance.

"Ok, where is the job?" Poncho asks, my brother shooting me a knowing look, his eyes flicking up as Mac walks in again, seven beers cradled in his arms.

"What job?" He asks as he places the bottles down on the table, looking round at us all.

"Dutch got us another op." Blain grunts, reaching out to take his beer, spitting the contents of his mouth out into the ashtray on the table. Hawkins, Poncho and I pull faces at that, but don't say anything.

"Another one? We only just got back!" Mac exclaims, taking a seat across from Hawkins, taking a sip from his beer.

"Perks of the job." Dutch shrugs, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Will you at least tell us what it is?" I can't keep the impatience from my voice, finding his vagueness irritating.

"I'm getting to it, (Y/n), calm down." He rolls his eyes, "It's in central America, somewhere in the jungle. Phillips was cagey about where exactly, but he said it's got something to do with guerrillas and hostages. We're supposed to get the hostages out of there."

"Sounds simple enough." Billy muses, rubbing his chin.

"When is it?" Poncho chips in, watching the major closely.

Dutch is quiet for a minute, his eyes flicking over us all, before he finally responds.

"It's tomorrow."

I nearly choke on my beer, spluttering as I sit upright in my chair.

"Tomorrow? Are you insane?!" I burst out, annoyed, "We got back from Afghanistan at the ass-crack of dawn today, and you want us to fly off to the jungle at the same time tomorrow? You trying to kill us or what?"

The others nod in agreement, murmuring their own complaints, only to shut up when Dutch turns a venomous glare on me.

"You know, if you spent half the energy you do on complaining on growing, you wouldn't look like a damn child anymore, (Y/n). Would make taking jobs a lot easier - means I don't have to explain why we've only got six and half mercs with us." He snaps, voice laced with anger, "I'm not insane, just practical. We all need more money, and the work is low at the moment. You'd know that if you weren't off lounging at home all day, letting us do the hard planning and prep work."

Silence descends on us all, my jaw dropping at the vehemence behind his words. No one speaks, letting the two of us stare at each other in hatred, my expression swiftly creasing into fury, every muscle in my body going tense.

Another moment passes, before I suddenly stand from the table, slamming my bottle on the table as I stalk past, heading straight out the door. Poncho tries to stop me, calling out to me, but I ignore him, practically seething as I leave the bar and stride to the car my brother and I came in. Unlocking it, I climb in and slam the door, buckling myself into the driver's seat as I throw the car into drive, pulling out onto the road. 

Furious, I drive way over the speed limit, weaving in and out of the traffic with no regard for my own safety as I careen down the highway. Screeching horns and tyres follow me as I go, but I ignore them, focusing instead on getting home, filled with anger now as Dutch's words play over and over in my head. 

It doesn't take long for me to pull up in the drive of my house, the car skidding on the loose gravel as I harshly jerk the handbrake into place, unbuckling myself before I climb out, making my way over to the door. Opening it, I go in and head straight to the bathroom, intending to take a shower to cool me down, knowing I need to calm down. I strip down quickly, quickly getting under the cold water with my fists clenched at my sides for a while, until I start to massage myself with my fingers, working out the knots in my muscles. It's pleasant, but I can still feel the anger burning in my system, so I swiftly leave again, wrapping myself in a towel. 

As I leave the bathroom, I hear a car pull up in the drive, the tyres crunching loudly on the gravel, announcing the newcomer's arrival. I dismiss it, chalking it up to it being Poncho, come to check up on me as the door downstairs opens, then closes, footsteps sounding in the hall as the person checks for me. The sounds are heavier than I thought they would be, and the identity of the person soon dawns on me.

Immediately, I feel the anger start racing through me again, my face creasing into a scowl until I force myself to calm down, at which point I turn and storm up to my bedroom. Going in, I start to rummage through my wardrobe, looking for some new clothes, trying to bite back the irritation rising in me as I hear the footsteps getting closer, the heavy boots not even halting as they reach the door. Within seconds, the wooden structure has been flung open, an angry mercenary standing in the space behind it.

"Ever learn to knock?" I snap at him as soon as I turn around, glaring at Dutch as he looms in the doorway, "Nevermind, you never learned manners period."

"Says the person who just stormed out of a bar." He scoffs, sneering at me as he steps into the room, "Talk about table manners."

"And whose fault is it I stormed out in the first place?" I glower at him, holding my towel in place as he continues forward, the glint in his eyes sparking a blazing heat inside me.

"Oh, so now it's my fault you can't take a joke?" Dutch jabs his finger at his chest before pointing it at me, brow furrowed in anger.

"You have a pretty poor idea of a joke, asshole." I spit back, lifting my finger up in his face as we step closer together, less than a foot away from each other now.

"You're the only one who thinks so, short-ass." He glares down at me, making me all too aware of how he towers over me.

Swallowing tightly, I shift uncomfortably.

"Sure about that? I can't be the only one who thinks your height jokes are getting old." I reply venomously, jabbing my finger at his chest.

He laughs humorlessly.

"Oh, but we both remember a time when you used to love playing into your shortness." His voice drops an octave, eyes boring into me, "I had you on your knees more than once with only standing over you. Remember?"

A flare of lust goes through me at the reminder, flashes of him looming over me as he pounded his cock harder and harder into my waiting mouth coming, unbidden, to mind. I'd always liked the sight of his muscular body above mine, as well as the feelings of his large hands wrapped around me, even if it was simply to hold my head still whilst he fucked it. 

"That was months ago." I hiss back at him, barely able to look up at him - if I do, it'll be too much like the memories in my head and I'll give in to the urges of my body. Already I can feel arousal pooling in my panties, my cheeks flushing as I realise this.

"Old habits die hard." Dutch growls, before swiftly reaching out to tear the towel away, exposing me to him. Before I can protest, however, he's taken hold of me and lifted me against the wall, pinning me roughly in place with his body, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His lips crash into mine, a mess of teeth and tongues ensuing as we kiss like we used to, wet sounds filling the air as we press closer and closer together. Soft sounds of need escape me, but they're swallowed by the ravenous major above me, who licks and nips at my lips, a few grunts leaving him as he does so. 

Moving to pull him closer, I moan loudly as Dutch jerks his hips into mine, using them to hold me in place, his arousal pressing at my clit through his trousers. I have to bite back whines at the feeling of the rough fabric against my unprotected clit, my slick soon covering the crotch of his jeans as he rolls his hips into me. One of his hands moves to palm roughly at my breast, pinching and rolling the nipple between two calloused fingers, his other hand grasping my ass, which he squeezes tightly. Whimpering into his mouth, I take my nails down his back, grinding my sensitive clit down onto him, enjoying the waves of pleasure emanating from the stimulation. 

Months and months of pent up lust pour through the kiss, only breaking as Dutch pulls back to yank his shirt off, revealing his muscular yet scarred torso to me. Instantly, I go to lick and kiss at the toned muscles, only to yelp indignantly as he takes hold of my hair and jerks my head back, growling as he fastens our lips together again. He presses closer, crushing me against the wall with his huge body, grinding his arousal into me with vigour, only to suddenly pull away, keeping me in his arms. In seconds, Dutch has thrown me on the bed, standing at the end with his hands on his belt. 

Biting my lip, I eagerly move to help him, but he pushes me back down roughly, wasting no time in pulling his trousers and underwear down, revealing his leaking cock to the air. I moan at the familiar sight of it, eyeing up the veined length keenly, following it from the base to the reddened tip, watching as precum beads there. 

Dutch doesn't give me long to admire him, climbing over me and pressing himself against me as soon as he's exposed, his lips moving to my neck. He leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses in his wake, biting at sensitive points as he goes, licking over them briefly each time to soothe them, every movement extracting a needy whine from me. One of his hands moves down to his cock, which he takes hold of and runs through my slick folds, coating the tip generously as he supplies pleasure to me. With every pass over my clit, I moan and rock up into him, clutching at his back. 

"Fuck me, Dutch. Show me how much bigger you are." I moan out, wrapping my legs around his waist.

As he hears my words, however, Dutch growls, leaning back, making my legs fall from where they were. I whine at the lack of contact until he rolls me onto my front, grabbing hold of my ass to knead and grope. 

"I'll show you alright." He practically snarls in my ear as he bends back over me, moulding his huge body to my smaller frame, hands jerking my ass into his hips. He grinds himself into me for a moment, building my pleasure further as he bites at the back of my neck, sending bolts of electricity through me, which I respond to by rocking back onto him. 

With a final grunt, Dutch lines himself up with my hole, surging forwards into me in one stroke, stretching me out as he goes. A half-scream leaves my throat as I feel his cock slide over every sensitive spot inside me, my walls clenching deliciously around him, every vein rubbing against me. He gives me no time to adjust, pulling out entirely before slamming back into me, setting a hard, fast pace that has me seeing stars in no time. Ecstasy races through me, a knot tightening swiftly in my abdomen at the feeling of his thick cock pounding into me. 

Dutch straightens after a moment, taking my hip in one hand whilst he presses my face into the bed with the other, using me as leverage to shove his cock as far into me as he can go, grunting and groaning behind me in pleasure and need. Under his grip, I feel totally immobile, but the thought of him using me to work out his anger sends me reeling, my walls clenching tightly around him, tearing a moan from his lips. His name falls from my own, almost like a mantra as he slams into me, sending bolts of pleasure through me, bringing me closer and closer to what I really want. 

"So close, Dutch...keep going, oh fuck, you're so good…" I moan out, my words muffled slightly by the bed, though they are audible enough for him.

A whine of displeasure echoes from my chest as he suddenly pulls out, my pussy throbbing at the loss. He doesn't wait long, though, rolling me back onto my back before he hikes my legs up onto his shoulders, thrusting roughly back into me. With the new angle, whole other waves of pleasure ripple through me, his cock hitting the very spot that brings me crashing towards an orgasm. The sound of skin slapping together fills the room, along with obscenely wet noises and moans from the two of us, both too caught up in the moment to care about what comes after.

"You're getting tighter, (Y/n)...gonna cum for me, are you?" Dutch groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as my pleasure rapidly builds, "Come on, (Y/n), cum for me!"

With a final scream of ecstasy, the tension inside me snaps and I cum, hard, my walls clenching like a vice around him. White light blinds me, everything disappearing around me as the pleasure floods through me in a great torrent, rendering me incapable of moving momentarily. 

Vaguely, I feel Dutch pound into me a few more times before he pulls out and cums over my stomach, letting out a roar of satisfaction at the sensation, his hand wrapped around himself, jerking his cock desperately. Breathing heavily, he milks himself dry before he slumps over me, smearing the sticky substance between us, the two of us left breathless in the throes of our pleasure. 

"Still as good as I remember." He hums, rolling off of me to lie beside me.

"Could say the same thing." I sigh, trailing a finger through his cooling cum, grimacing at the sight of it.

Groaning, I heave myself up, taking the towel up from the floor.

"Where are you going?" Dutch asks, still lounging on the bed.

"Shower. You should, too." I inform him, moving to leave, only to stop still as the door swings open.

"(Y/n)? Who are you- oh." Poncho blushes a deep red, grimacing as he swiftly ducks back out of the room. 

"Oh shit…" I groan, putting my head in my hands, unable to bite back a small smile.

With just grins, leaning back on his hands.

"Oops."

-

Tag list: @nightime-luna-fairy

[pedros-mustache]

the rising sun

summary: “be still, sad heart! and cease repining / behind the clouds the sun is still shining.” — henry wadsworth longfellow

word count: 2.8k

warnings: angst, discussion of depression/anxiety, general not-so-happy tone to the whole thing, some fluff thrown in there for good measure

a/n: to be honest, i almost didn’t post this. i’ve not been doing well the last week, and this fic is pretty indicative of my current mental state. i decided to upload it despite my reservations and embarrassment on the hope that this might give someone struggling just like a me a moment of peace. xoxo. ❤️

it’s raining when marcus comes home.

you sit on the living room’s padded window seat, plush blanket tangled around your legs, forehead pressed against the chill windowpane at your side. bloated raindrops slide down the glass, and you watch, halfheartedly willing one raindrop to reach the lip of the window before another. 

the narrow street below your window is empty. puddles gather on the red brick sidewalks, and the birch trees planted in small earthen squares along the road tremble with each sharp gust of rainy wind. it’s cold out. you can feel the chill through the window, but you don’t pull away.

you hear the front door shut and marcus toe his shoes off. his keys jingle as they drop to the catch-all bowl on the foyer table, and then he’s hurrying into the kitchen, shouting as he goes. you can’t see him from where you sit, but his voice carries through the small apartment. you blame the high ceilings and exposed brick walls. sound travels too easily in this space, and sometimes it's too much for you to bear. you sink lower on the window seat, shutting your eyes against the sound of his voice.

“hey! sorry i’m late. there was this—this thing at work, and then i had to get the groceries, but then i forgot about dinner—” he sighs heavily, places something on the kitchen island that crinkles. “whatever, it doesn’t matter. i’m home. d’you have a good day?”

you huff in response. the sound gets trapped in the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders.

“i got chinese.” 

he’s close now, his voice dropped to an even timbre. you can feel him, feel the sudden shift of his mood when he enters the living room and sees you, curled up on the window seat like a pillbug caught in a storm. where he was unruffled before, on the verge of relaxing after a long day of work, he is now worried, concern rolling off him in crashing waves. 

you hate that you do this to him. 

“you okay, bug?”

opening your eyes, you tilt your head over your shoulder to look at him. you manage a weary smile, wavering around the edges, entirely unconvincing and pathetic. “mhm. just tired ‘s all. long day.”

marcus’s brow pinches. he puts his hands in his pockets, and the jacket around his shoulders tightens with the movement. “you’ve been tired a lot the last few days,” he says. his words are slow, calculated, like he’s dancing around the point.

you shrug, dancing around the point with him, a slow-footed, wary sort of dance. “i guess.” 

“are you sure you—” he stops talking, removes a hand from his pockets, drags his thumb over his lower lip as he stares at you. his brown eyes are warm, and his stare is intense. it’s as if he’s trying to peel back all of your layers with his eyes alone, each bat of his long eyelashes another layer closer to the most vulnerable places of your heart.

you sit up, suddenly nervous under his scrutinizing gaze. frowning, you brush a stray lock of hair away from your face, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “what? what are you staring at me for?” there’s more than a bite to your tone, and you wince at the harsh sound of your voice. 

he doesn’t deserve that.

turning your face away, you return your gaze to the puddle third from left of your front tire. it’s grown bigger, and your car’s reflection seems to flutter as wind pushes across the top of the pool of water.

“can i sit?”

you look from marcus to his outstretched hand to the empty space across from you on the seat. after your timid nod, he sits with another heavy sigh, his second of the night. you wonder how often you are the one to make him sigh like that.

he leans his head against the wall and watches as a bird swoops down from the roof ledge to a tree across the street. he sits in an awkward sort of fold, his legs too long to sit comfortably on the seat with you there as well. twisted at the waist, legs stretched to the side, he folds his hands in his lap and inhales deeply then exhales through his mouth.

your face softens as you wait for him to speak. you inhale too, mirroring the slow rise and fall of his chest with deep breathing of your own. the panic that’s gripped you all day begins to ebb. the blurry edges of your vision clears, and he comes into focus. for a moment, you allow yourself to study the lines of his neck, his sun-kissed skin, and strong jaw. he’s solid and firm in all the places you are not—physically, mentally, emotionally. 

your chest tightens again at the thought.

he shifts his gaze away from the cramped georgetown street. “you forget to breathe when you’re anxious.”

ducking your head, you nod. “i know.” with a sigh of your own, you meet his eyes through the tops of your lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“why are you apologizing?”

“well, i don’t… i mean—” you shake your head, caught off guard by his question and the earnest look on his face. why does he have to look at you like that? so open and honest and caring? he shouldn’t look at you like that, not when you’re like this. 

you study your knees, pushed tight against your chest. there’s a frayed thread on your pant leg. you pluck it off and drop it to the side. finally, you say, “i’ve been off the last few days, haven’t really been myself. i know i’m not fun when i’m like this…”

“not fun?” marcus scoffs as though offended, and your head snaps up to level him a glare. registering the look on your face, he lifts his hands in surrender. “wait a second—i wasn’t making fun. i just—” he tilts his head to the side. “baby, you don’t have to be fun all the time.”

your shoulders sag. you look away. you can’t look at him too long. he’s too good to you.

in the year and a half you’ve been with marcus, you’ve had your bad days. they come and go. you’ve taken to comparing your bad days to the ice-cream truck which wanders through your neighborhood from time to time. it’s never consistent, always appearing out of the blue after an extended absence, looking more and more worn down upon each new arrival. your bad days are like the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

marcus has seen you in your anxious moments: the afternoons where it hits you and suddenly you can’t breathe or think clearly and everything feels topsy-turvy. those moments you can handle yourself. you know what to do and how to bounce back without causing too much of a fuss.

he’s seen you in your depressed moments too: the evenings where all you want to do is curl in bed and never leave, your thoughts a swirling mess of perceived rejection and bleakness and despair. those moments you prefer to work through on your own, though he makes it abundantly clear he’s only an arm’s reach away. still, you know what to do and how to bounce back without causing too much of a fuss.

you don’t like to cause a fuss.

this week, though—fuck, this week has been bad, and you both know it.

from the moment you wake, it starts: muscle-gripping fear, racing heart, dry mouth, and weary limbs. you stumble through your morning routine, pushing it all down, down, down because you have to go to work. you have to do your job. life doesn’t stop just because you’re anxious.  

when you come home in the afternoons, the bed is waiting, cold and unmade. you sleep—sleep the worry away and the fatigue away. it’s all you can do to be ready for marcus to return from the city. he doesn’t need to see you like this, a lump of trembling hands and bone-deep exhaustion. 

this isn’t what he signed up for. 

for a week you’ve been hanging on by a thread, shoving him and everyone else in your path away because it’s what’s easiest. you can take care of yourself. no one needs the added weight of caring for you, least of all marcus. if you opened the door, let him have a peek inside, he’d know, he’d see—it’s too much. it’s better if you keep this part of yourself to yourself.

“bug?”

you pull your face away from your elbow. “yeah?”

“come here.” he opens his arms, and it’s an invitation you cannot decline. 

the transition from your side of the window seat to his is awkward. it’s a tangle of arms and legs in the narrow space, an elbow against his stomach, a grunt of pain, and a hurried whisper of apology. when you settle your back against his chest, his warmth pushes through the chill clinging to your skin. you’ve been sitting by the window too long. you turn your face to press your cheek against his shoulder, winding both of your arms around his bicep. you squeeze tight, inhaling his cologne and the raindrops still clinging to his jacket. 

“there.” his chest rumbles beneath you when he speaks. “that’s better.” 

“marcus, i—” 

he shushes you with a gentle whisper. “hold on. just breathe with me, okay?”

you swallow past the lump in your throat and nod against his arm.

inhale, exhale—you follow his lead.

your eyes drift shut. he feels good, safe and steady. 

unbidden, tears prick your eyes, and you are powerless to stop them. you push your face further against his arm to stem the sudden flow of tears. the taste of salt floods your mouth, and you sniff hard, dragging the back of one hand across your cheeks. marcus doesn’t say anything. he just drags his hand over your hair, his own cheek pressed to the crown of your head. he holds you tight, and you surrender to the weight of his arms around you, his body pressed against yours.

when the tears stop, you sit up to wipe your face. marcus drops his hand from your head to your back. his touch is smooth and gentle, and you laugh against the ridiculousness of it all.

“i’m sorry,” you say, dragging your sleeve under your nose. “i know you didn’t come home anticipating this.”

marcus is quiet for a moment. his palm spreads across the width of your lower back. you can feel the warmth of his skin perimate the thin cotton of your sleep shirt. “baby?” you turn your face to him. “you gotta stop apologizing.”

you swallow hard with a nod. “yeah, i know. i’m so—” he quirks an eyebrow, and you laugh despite yourself. “you’re right.”

“come here,” he says again. “lean back.”

you do as you're told, your head nestled against his shoulder. he slides his hands down your arms, a slow drag, until he can fit his fingers between yours and squeeze. he kisses your temple, and the hair on his cheek tickles your skin.

“i love you,” he whispers.

you smile—a genuine smile, small as it is. 

inhaling deeply, you decide to lay it all on the table. you love marcus. if he ever asked, you’d marry him in a heartbeat. but you’re tired of running from him when all he’s ever done is proven himself to be a gentleman with a heart of solid gold. he deserves to know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it. even if it drives him away in the end.

“when i was a freshman in college,” you start, shifting your back against his chest. “i dated this guy. we were together for only a few months, but he was a real asshole.” the way marcus stiffens behind you, his arms tightening reflexively around your middle, warms your cheeks. his subtle display of protectiveness emboldens your story, and you continue with a clearer voice.

“i was really anxious back then, like every day. it was a constant battle between myself and my anxiety, and he hated it. one night we were on the phone and i was telling him about my day and he got really quiet and then he told me, ‘i can’t deal with your anxiety. it’s too much.’ i’ve never forgotten that.”

when marcus says nothing in response, you twist to face him, laying your hand flat against his chest. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your palm. it beats fast, a hurried gallop in his chest. his eyes dart back and forth between yours, his lips parted in something akin to shock. you don’t give him a chance to speak before you continue.

“marcus? please—please tell me you can deal with it. i don’t know what i’d do if you couldn’t.”

marcus’s face crumbles. with tears welling in his eyes, he lifts his hands to cup your face. “oh my god, baby,” he breathes, rolling his forehead over yours. “i’m so sorry.”

he kisses you. it’s short and sweet and perhaps another thread in his apology. you grip his wrist, holding him tight, willing him to stay—stay with you now and forever, until the sun no longer shines and the earth vanishes to dust. 

when you break apart, he skims his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. “what a fucking loser,” he says, and you laugh, tossing your head back at the sheer vitriol lacing his words. it’s not often marcus gets angry. to see a red flush on his cheeks and frustration in his brow, all over some guy you haven’t thought about in years, it makes your heart flutter in the best possible way. “no, i mean it! god, what an asshole.” 

he sucks in a breath and catches your eyes. his thumb and forefinger move to grip your chin, a gentle hold but one that leaves you powerless to ignore anything he’s about to say. you steel yourself, lungs tight with anticipation.

“it—this—you.” he shakes his head. “it’s not something i deal with. i don’t deal with it. do you hear me? say you do.”

eyes misty, you nod. “i do. i hear you, marcus.”

“i want to take care of you. that’s why we’re together. we’re a team. teammates rely on one another—”

“marcus, i don’t watch sports.”

he smirks. “just humor me.” releasing his hold on your chin, he smooths his hand down the side of your face. “i want to help you. you don’t need to carry this all by yourself.”

“i just thought that—”

“look, all guys are idiots. if you’re feeling some type of way, you gotta tell me. i can’t read minds. but all guys aren’t assholes. i want to help you.”

you cover the hand on your cheek with your fingers and nuzzle your nose against his palm. “i love you.” 

“i love you more. really, i do. more than the stars in the sky and all the—”

you pull your face away with a grimace, holding up your hand to stop him. “okay, please, that’s too much. too sweet, too schmaltzy. try and preserve some of your dignity.” 

marcus laughs, a deep, hearty sound that warms you to the center of your being. he winds an arm around the small of your back to draw you close, his lips descending to the curve of your neck. he peppers your skin with kisses—warm ones, wet ones, gentle ones—until you push at his shoulders. he drops back against the wall, chest heaving and eyes glistening with mirth.

you catch your lower lip in your teeth and shake your head. “you hopeless romantic you.”

“guilty as charged.” 

sliding out from between his legs, you drop to the floor. “you said you got chinese?”

“yeah, but it might be a little cold by now.”

you offer him your hand. “that’s okay. i’m hungry.”

marcus slides his fingers between yours. “i’ll warm it up then.”

as he leads you to the kitchen, your bare feet padding behind his socked ones, you catch a glimpse of the world outside. it’s no longer raining. the clouds have parted, revealing a bright sun. the sun’s rays drench the street in the warm glow of sunset, all orange and pale yellow and dusky red. you smile and lean against marcus’s arm as he sets about warming dinner in the microwave. he follows your eyeline to the window and throws an arm around your shoulders.

“do you want to go on a walk after dinner?”

looking up, you grin. “yeah, that would be nice.”

“the rain never stays forever.”

he’s not talking about the weather, and you both know it. you squeeze his hand.

“no, i guess it doesn’t.”

[heliads]

The Lookout (Part One)

Your brother, Stiles Stilinski, has a feeling that newcomer Theo Raeken only means trouble for the McCall pack. When he sends you to spy on the werewolf, you’re not sure what to expect.

masterlist / part two

You sigh irritably. The school day is over, it’s the weekend, the last thing you want to do is listen to your older brother yammer on about his classmate-related fears. However, Stiles Stilinski has rarely cared about what you did or did not want to do when it came to his werewolf-safety lectures, and so he continues on speaking. This time, the topic of this discussion is one Theo Raeken; namely, the fact that the guy is obviously a supervillain. At least according to Stiles.

“Look, you can’t tell me it’s not suspicious. Werewolves don’t just show up in Beacon Hills without something to prove. Besides, the guy even walks and talks evil.” You push open the doors to the school with a sigh. “I think he’s fine. You’re just being paranoid.” Stiles lets out an irritated huff. “Usually, the paranoid people in movies end up being right. You should listen to me. I could be right about this.”

You give him a look. “Or you could be wrong, and we’ll just be running away from someone who could be a potential ally for no good reason. Honestly, I think you’re just overreacting.” Stiles stares at you, utter bewilderment crossing his face. “You know what, I think I know what it is.” He stabs a finger in your general direction, suddenly decisive. “You think he’s hot. That’s what it is. You don’t want to listen to me because you think he’s hot and you don’t want to consider him a bad guy.”

You turn to him with a look of utter shock. “Excuse me?” Stiles gestures loosely with his hand as the two of you continue walking through the school parking lot. “You keep staring at him, you smile when he talks, you don’t want to listen when I tell you he’s obviously a bad guy. It’s simple- you think he’s hot.” You let out a snort of laughter. “You stare at him more than I do, Stiles. Besides, if we’re talking about staring then we need to talk about Lydia. You can’t keep your eyes off of her. Honestly, it’s kind of cute.”

Stiles swats your shoulder. “We’re not talking about Lydia. We’re talking about Theo.” You flash your brother a smile as you reach his beloved Jeep, opening the door to slide inside the passenger’s seat. “I think you’re being ridiculous. And, even if I did happen to think he’s hot, it wouldn’t matter. You’re still insane.” Stiles lets out a squawk of protest as he enters the car as well. 

The two of you are so involved in your argument that you don’t notice the brown-haired boy pausing by the door of his truck. He turns when he hears his name tossed around by you and your brother, but a small smile rises unbidden to his lips when he hears your laughter. The boy hesitates a second longer, and then the bubble of your conversation is drowned out by the sound of the Jeep’s engine starting up. The boy’s grin slides away as if he’s suddenly remembered himself, although he does cut one last glance your way, eyes lingering on your easy smile.

You know something is about to happen when Scott, Lydia, Kira, and Malia all show up to your house. You raise an eyebrow at your brother when they all file into your kitchen. Your father is coincidentally absent, although you’re sure Stiles timed this to happen when he was out on a shift as sheriff. “I’m sure I’d like to know what this is all about. I usually get told about pack meetings, but now I’m getting a little worried.”

Stiles folds his hands together. “I didn’t tell anyone that there was a pack meeting until just now because I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t have anyone joining in.” Malia cuts in. “By ‘anyone’, he means Theo. The whole point of this is about Theo.” You grin. “I had a feeling it would somehow tie to him.” Stiles looks miffed. “He’s a threat, okay? And by the end of this, I’ll be able to prove it.” You watch him with a quizzical eye. “What does that mean?”

Stiles leans forward across the table. “I want you to go spy on Theo. You’re going to go pretend to be his friend and everything, and you’re going to find out what he’s hiding from us.” You mirror his stance in front of the table. “If you’re right and Theo’s such a bad guy, why would he tell me anything? This plan makes no sense.” Scott steps forward. “That’s why we need you to convince him to let down his guard. Theo assumes Stiles is on to him, right? If he thinks he can steer you away from Stiles, you might be able to trick him into giving up some information.”

You consider this. “You really think I can be a spy for the pack? You actually think this is going to work?” Stiles reaches across the table to clap you on the shoulder. “I know it’s going to work. He won’t suspect a thing.” You sigh. “I wish I had your confidence. I’m fairly sure he’s going to see through this the first time I try to talk to him.”

You have no idea why Stiles thinks this is going to work. It’s a terrible plan, and the chances of it succeeding are slim to none. That being said, you have never backed down from a challenge, especially not from your brother, and so you’re certainly not about to start now. You form a plan: simple, but probably effective. When leaving school the next day, you have an argument with Stiles, coincidentally in front of Theo’s truck. You allow the werewolf to see you walk away angrily from your brother, and allow yourself a small smile when you see his truck come to a stop as you’re walking furiously down the sidewalk.

You look over when you hear a shout from Theo’s direction. “You need a lift?” You pretend to look hesitant, and then suddenly decisive, as if not wanting to trust Theo and then remembering that Stiles (who you’re supposed to hate) doesn’t like Theo. You walk over, sliding into the passenger’s seat. Theo raises an eyebrow when you close the truck door a little louder than normal. “You want to tell me what happened?” You just sigh, staring out over the road ahead of you. “I hate my brother.”

Theo chuckles as he drives away from the sidewalk, continuing on down the road. “What, has he finally gotten to you too?” You heave an exasperated sigh. “He won’t let me do anything. He keeps repeating this same excuse that he wants to ‘protect me from all the supernaturals’ but he won’t let me prove myself. He’s not even that much older than me, and I can handle myself.” Theo smirks. “If he can’t see that, he’s an idiot.” You grumble to yourself. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Theo ends up driving you back to your house, coming to a stop in your driveway. You turn to him. “Thanks for the ride. I didn’t really like the idea of having to walk all the way back here.” Theo offers you a cool grin. “Hey, no problem. If you ever want to get away from all this, my door is always open.” You smile quietly in spite of yourself. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” You wave goodbye, jumping down out of the truck and walking to the door. You’re pleasantly surprised to note that Theo doesn’t leave until he sees you go in, making sure that you’ll be alright. You didn’t expect this to go so well this quickly, but you’re not about to complain.

Stiles arrives at your house a short while after you, and he bounds excitedly over to you. “So, how’d it go? Does he trust you unconditionally?” You laugh. “Isn’t Theo supposed to be a sinister, heartless supervillain? No, he doesn’t trust me.” Stiles holds up a finger to prove his point. “Yet. He doesn’t trust you yet. You can do this.” You groan, shaking your head as you try to hold back a grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The next morning, you make sure to keep up the pretense of pretending to hate your brother. Theo actually makes it surprisingly easy to continue with the act- you’ve barely walked outside to eat your lunch when he’s already calling you over to sit next to him. You slide onto the bench, a few tables down from Stiles and his friends. Theo shrugs at your raised eyebrow. “Hey, you were glaring at Stiles so I assumed you still weren’t over the argument. I figured you might want somewhere else to eat.”

You grin. “And you want to make him mad because you know he doesn’t trust you?” Theo returns your twisting smile. “I’m not going to pretend like that didn’t cross my mind. I mean, if you don’t like him why should I?” You call up a look of utter indignation. “He’s just being so annoying! He doesn’t trust me to do anything. Stiles isn’t even that much older than me but he’s already trying to be a helicopter parent.” This is exactly what Theo wants to hear, and you know it. Theo leans forward, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “Then what do you say we ditch him? I’m willing to bet that there’s more to Beacon Hills than the limits of Scott’s pack.”

Stiles warned you about Theo’s manipulation tactics, the way he tries to sway everyone to his side. You can’t deny that he’s good at it- if it weren’t for the fact that the little dispute between you and Stiles was completely fabricated you’d almost believe that Theo truly wants to help you. This being said, you can spot Theo’s lies reaching out to you and so you wrap them around yourself, calling up your lies to combat his. Two can play at this game.

You flash him a smile. “Sounds perfect. Meet me after school?” Theo nods. “We can take my truck.” Across the tables, Stiles finally glances up and sees you. The look of bitter annoyance on his face upon seeing you with Theo isn’t hard to fake, although it still makes you and Theo laugh. This might be more fun than you had first envisioned.

How do you convince an apparently betraying conman and serial liar to trust you? It’s surprisingly easy with Theo, actually. You end up spending more and more time together- drives to and from school turn into impromptu road trips, you meet up at his house or the school or the middle of the woods. You’re not sure you’ve ever laughed so much with anyone before, and it’s getting harder and harder to remember that you’re supposed to be spying on this guy, not actually becoming friends.

That being said, you have been able to uncover some information. Something is definitely up about Theo’s parents, outside of the signature dilemma uncovered by Stiles. You’ve seen the way Theo’s parents watch him when his back is turned, the way fear suddenly crops up in their eyes. They almost act like he’s a stranger, someone to be afraid of. You’re not sure why, but you find yourself making excuses to head away from them. Stiles would probably want you to stick around, try and figure out any more clues, but it’s so unnerving that you want to avoid his parents instead.

Also, there’s something not quite right about Theo’s story. You’ve heard him mention it a couple of times now- he was out skateboarding late at night, an alpha attacked, he was turned into a werewolf just like Liam and the rest. Yet Theo doesn’t own a skateboard, hasn’t for a while. In fact, you had casually asked him a question about skateboarding and he had completely drawn a blank. It makes no sense, which means that something is definitely wrong with his story. And if Theo is lying about how he became a werewolf, then he’s probably lying about why he came to Beacon Hills, which means that you and your friends might be in more danger than you had thought.

Even with all of this, though, you’re still not sure that you want to leave Theo’s side. When you told Stiles and the others about everything you’d uncovered about Theo, they’d been worried. Scott had pulled you aside, asking if you wanted to stay so close to Theo. If he was as dangerous as you think, you might be at risk if you continued hanging out with him away from the pack. Stiles, too, seems less certain of his foolproof plan for you to spy on the werewolf and mentioned that you might want to step away. Every time they ask, though, you make up excuses. There might be more to find out. It’ll be good to have someone get close to him, just in case. No matter what, though, you know one thing: you don’t think you could leave Theo if you tried.

These thoughts keep burning into the back of your mind, but you manage to push them aside for today. It’s a beautiful night, the sun having finally set and the colors of the dusk washed away into an all-encompassing inky black. The stars are spangled across the horizon, and a laugh is burning deep in your throat as you race Theo through the woods of the Beacon Hills Preserve. You technically shouldn’t be here this late at night, you know that, but for some reason, you can’t entirely force yourself to leave. You’re with Theo, he’ll make sure nothing happens to you.

Your feet pound on the packed earth, ducking under low-hanging branches and around fallen tree stumps. You think you’re alone, and then a pair of arms wrap around your waist and force you to a stop. A laugh bubbles out of you before you can help it, and you swat at Theo’s arms, although he doesn’t let go. “You ass, I thought you were farther behind me.” Theo’s voice is close to your ear, his face only inches from yours. “I’m a werewolf, remember? I could outrun you any day.”

You roll your eyes, although this just makes the smirk on Theo’s face broaden. “It’s mean, that’s what it is. Maybe I’m trying to finally be alone, you don’t know that.” Theo just chuckles, the sound deep in his chest and making you shiver. “If I believed that, I would have stopped running.” There’s a silence now, a silence that hangs over the two of you like a cloak. You realize where you are, where his hands still encircle your waist and his storm-grey eyes are still locked on yours. There’s a second of hesitation, and then he leans down and kisses you.

If you were smart, you would break away. If you were smart, you would realize that Theo Raeken is only doing this to get to you and to get to your pack, that he is more dangerous than you could know. Your best option is to leave, to stop before you get your heart involved. But that’s already happened, hasn’t it? Despite your best efforts, despite everything you know about Theo, you can’t help but kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and letting him wash away everything you can remember about the world.

Maybe you’re not supposed to be falling for Theo. You’re not sure that you ever had a choice.

[lilhawkeye3]

At Arm’s Length

Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader (gender neutral)

Summary: He may not accept you as part of the 104th, but you’re still one of the Pack— even if you prove so at the highest price.

Warnings: angst and injury

Part 1/10

~~~~~~~~

You may be a senior Padawan, but you still work alongside your Master with his battalion. After all, where better to assign a proficient healer than with one of the GAR’s main aid regiments? You weren’t about to complain.

Or rather, you tried to see the best in the situation and not complain, because you’d seen the hardships of the many people your Master’s battalion had helped... even if your fellow commander hated your guts and thus kept you apart from ever truly getting to know the men you worked alongside with.

He’d been like that since the very beginning, even when his colors were red instead of gray. Never speaking to you more than needed, always with a fierce scowl and usually only when on duty. Only calling you “Commander” or “Padawan,” never even using your last name. His coldness has caused many of the men to consequently be wary of you and avoid interacting outside of duties. Sure, you did have a few of them you considered friends— coincidentally, some of them the men closest to Commander Wolffe— but it still hurt to be kept apart from the rest of the battalion.

You tried not to let your Master see how much the isolation wounded you, especially after you’d accidentally walked back into a briefing room after forgetting your datapad and seen Master Plo with his hand on Wolffe’s shoulder, calling him ad.

No, you’d survive the Commander’s punishment by yourself, even if you didn’t know what you’d done to deserve it. He was the true leader of the battalion, anyways— you shouldn’t even be there.

~~~~~~

This day starts out similar to any other.

You and Commander Wolffe are jointly leading a delivery of food and medical supplies to the outskirts of a war-torn city on a Mid Rim planet. The people there are easier to work with than most and hold no hatred towards the Jedi, so you’re able to take charge with the medicine distribution as you work through healing the most severely injured brought to you. It’s gratifying work, and you’re happy to see the spark of hope that you’re able to bring to your patients’ eyes.

You’ve just wrapped up with the last of them and have fallen back into a more supervising mode as you try and catch your breath. Healing is strenuous work, and you’d recently found yourself pushing further than you really should. The exhaustion rarely ever leaves your bones anymore.

It seems you’ll be unable to have any reprieve, however, and you try to hold in a sigh as you see Commander Wolffe approaching you. “Commander?” You ask, trying to fix your stance to hide your weariness.

He doesn’t seem to notice it. “Got any reason for just standing around?” He huffs, and you can clearly hear the poorly hidden ire in his tone. “Tryin’ to make the place look pretty?”

His scornful addition only serve to further frustrate you, and you try to keep yourself calm, knowing he’s probably looking for a fight. “I only needed a moment to myself, Commander. I Force-healed more civilians today than I have in the same time frame before...” You trail off for a moment to catch your breath, but he takes advantage of your pause.

“You think you’re the only one who’s working your shebs off right now?” He growls, leaning slightly towards you. “Well, suck it up—”

Your eyes narrow and you take a step towards him. “Excuse me, as I was saying, if I try to help any more right now, I will suffer from Force-exhaustion and pass out. Either way, I’d only get in the way if I try to help the men now.”

He begins to speak, his frustration palpable both in his bright Force signature and his low voice. You’re unable to focus on what exactly he’s saying though, as something on the outskirts of your senses catches your attention. You look around discretely, trying to figure out where it’s coming from.

“—are you even listening? You can’t even take this seriously—”

And then you feel it— something on the edge of your senses, a warning through the Force. Your reaction is instinctive and while you start moving before you fully comprehend why, your mind is at peace with your path.

You throw yourself in front of Wolffe just in time to take the shots meant for him.

His helmet may be on, but you can feel the tidal wave of shock and anger and, to your surprise, fear course through him as his arms wrap around your waist when you begin to fall forward into his chest. He cradles you against his plastoid armor as he drags you toward the ground, out of range of any following shots. It’s a good thing he does, as somewhere above the growing static in your ears, you hear the sound of more blasterfire erupting.

The fire spreads through your chest with every breath you suck in, and you find your eyes locking onto the gray paint strokes on his helmet as the Commander barks out orders to the men. You try and focus on that as the pain threatens to make you cry out, and consequently it takes several frantic shouts of your name— your actual name— for you to hazily move your gaze to where you know Wolffe’s eyes are staring back at you.

“You’re going t’be fine,” he says, shifting his hold on you so that you’re tipped more securely against his chest. “General Plo is clearing the path for us to get you out of here.” His fingers slightly tighten on you. “You stay with me, yeah? Just keep fighting, y’hear me?”

You don’t have the energy to give more than a slight nod, but you’re still able to sob as Wolffe stands and begins to run with you in his arms. Each step jostles you against his armor, making the pain worse. He tries to counter it with a constant low murmur of apologies and repetitions of your name to ensure you’re still awake, which you desperately grab onto as a distraction.

It becomes too much at a certain point, and you must pass out in agony somewhere in his flight, because the next thing you’re aware of is opening your eyes to find the duristeel ceiling of a LAAT/i above you as you’re lifted onto the craft in a cot. A moan escapes your lips unbidden as consciousness returns the pain at heightened levels, and you shut your eyes tight in an effort to keep your tears from spilling. You’re their commander. You can’t show the extent of your injury. Your men have suffered worse than this.

And yet, as each breath becomes shallower and more difficult to inhale, you find yourself crying out desperately and weakly. “Wolffe...”

Your left hand has begun to clench tightly at your light gray robes as you swallow the worst of your cries, but time stands still once more when an armored hand gently eases your hold on the fabric and weaves their fingers through yours instead. Their other hand finds your forehead and rests there lightly. The comforting gestures don’t lessen your agony, but they offer a mental reprieve from it, if only for a few moments.

The rational side of you knows this isn’t the Commander. He would never abandon his men while they’re still fighting, and besides, he can hardly stand the sight of you.

But the other half of you that can feel yourself dying takes control of the moment as it tries to distract you from your fear by letting you pretend that for just a few seconds, Wolffe was with you and he cared.

Besides, who would it harm? As your eyes began to flicker shut despite the frantic shouts of the trooper clutching your hand—Comet, you recognized— you doubted you’d be opening them again anyways.

~~~~~~

Do y’all want a part 2? This is only the beginning of their story but idk if anyone is interesting in reading it lol. Let me know!

PART 2

[cass1x1]

❛ i won’t bite. unless you’re into that sort of thing. ❜ | spy babes!

The image came to them, hard and unbidden. Images, really. Some real, some imagined. The marks on his shoulders, his throat, his collar--real. The low groans they had pretended not to hear at all hours when he had visitors--real. The sharp sting his teeth cutting into their flesh, just shy of breaking skin--imagined. The groan he would make as they sunk their teeth into his neck, leaving a mark--a bit of both. They didn't bite either; at least, they hadn't ever before.

Sasha noticed immediately. Of course he did. For all that they hated him, they had to admit, he was good. Good enough to be their rival, at least. They could tell from that self-assured smirk, the cock of his eyebrow, that he noticed. He pushed himself off the wall and sauntered toward them. "Are you?"

They shook their head, hoping to clear the image from their head. "Am I what?"

"Into that sort of thing?" They couldn't fucking stand that voice, the way he sounded. They'd heard it before, when he brought people over. Partners. They'd heard it used on themself, too, when they were play-acting in front of people. "Biting?"

"I--" They licked their lip. Thinking fast, coming up with a plausible lie, they were supposed to be good at this. They were good at this. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, I know the answer. I just want to make you say it."

They ran through their options. I am. I'm not. Biting is cheap. But it was the truth, the iridescent, vulnerable part of themself, that offered a way out. "I've never tried."

They could read the shock easily, the way he scanned them for whatever tell he'd grown used to, before the mask smoothed his features over. He leaned in close, and they felt the perverse urge to arch up and close that gap. "We'll just have to rectify that, won't we?"

He didn't move more than that, seemingly waiting on them. For fuck's sake. They leaned forward, eyes already fluttering closed. They'd had kisses before, after all. Perfunctory things, but they understood the mechanics. But as they reached where they knew Sasha's lips ought to be, they felt nothing.

Well, they felt nothing where the lips ought to be. Instead, there was a brush--cheek passing cheek. Something--hand--brushing their hair out of the way. And then, there were the lips, warm and soft against their neck. They were only there for a moment, a glance that couldn't even be considered a kiss, before Theo felt something else. Three things, actually.

Oh.

First, the unyielding scrape of teeth on their neck, right where their pulse jumped to meet it. Second, a suckling, a combination of lips and tongue and teeth that pulled until it almost hurt. Third, the gentle soothing of tongue.

They didn't feel the noise they made, the noise he made them make. They heard it, after the fact, something remembered more than experienced. Sasha noticed, surely, but he didn't say anything, sprinkling kisses on and around the site of the bite, keeping his mouth busy for once. Those kisses got lighter, sparser. They traveled up their neck to their jaw, ending their journey on the corner of their mouth. Their eyes slid back open to find Sasha staring at them, that same damn smirk back. They shook their head again, their hair falling back over their shoulder, covering what had been exposed a moment ago.

"Well?"

They pushed their glasses up their nose pertly. "What?" He didn't answer, still waiting. Damn him and his infinite patience. "You want me to throw myself onto the counter and spread my legs and start begging? Christ." They rolled their eyes. Sarcasm was a poor defense, and Sasha could see right through it, but it was the only thing they could reach. They huffed. "Great job. You...you seem like you know what you're doing there, so congrats, I guess."

He said nothing, just cocked his eyebrow again. "Let me know if you want to try more."

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

The Last to Know

[on ao3]

It took Geralt fifteen years and one of the hardest conversations of his life to ask Jaskier to come with him to Kaer Morhen for the winter and it's taken ten seconds and six words to make him regret the decision entirely.

They've barely made it through the front door when Lambert spots them and strolls up to greet them. Initially, Geralt is pleased to see him; it's been a long hard year and he's glad for a friendly face. Then Lambert opens his mouth and Geralt's stomach drops into the bottom of his boots.

"Jaskier," Lambert purrs, sparing Geralt only a glance before approaching the bard, "good to see you again." He claps him on the shoulder with a disconcerting familiarity and Geralt glowers at him from his spot next to Jaskier.

“What d’you mean good to see him again.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier scoffs, placing his hands on his hips, “I’ll-”

“Ran into him outside Wyzima a couple years back, spent a rather delightful night together,” Lambert wiggles his eyebrows, "you planning on staying all winter?"

Jaskier turns to Geralt for an answer but stops when he sees the look on his face. “Doubt I’d make it back down the pass in one piece,” he jokes, though the look he casts at Geralt is concerned.

"Guess we’ll be spending some time together then," Lambert smirks and Geralt can taste bile on the back of his tongue.

"Enough," he growls, pressing a hand between Jaskier's shoulders and urging him forward. He doesn't let go even when Jaskier moves on his own, and as they pass out of the main hall, Geralt hears Lambert mutter something under his breath, but the blood is rushing too hard in his ears for him to hear it.

Once they're out of sight, he lets go of Jaskier, ignoring his protests and complains about manhandling. They make their way up the stairs and Geralt leads him to the room they're supposed to share. Considering the new information, implied or otherwise, he’s regretting his decision to come this year at all.

Lambert isn't the only one. Aiden had been no less subtle than Lambert about it, and Geralt had nearly split his tankard in half listening to them reminisce about it. He'd tuned out after a little while and had to leave the room when Lambert suggested Jaskier join them in their room.

Eskel was easier to stomach, if only a little. And only because Geralt himself had fallen for him early in their years of study at the keep. Those days were long over for the two of them, but he was still able to see the draw there, understand why people would give in to Eskel without so much as a moment of hesitation. Still, knowing Jaskier is one of those people sits like acid in the pit of his stomach.

Coen is a surprise. Geralt hasn't even seen him in over a decade, so he's not sure when or how Jaskier managed to find him and fall into bed with him, but here they are.

The one saving grace is that when Vesemir joins them in the evening, Jaskier makes no visible sign of recognition. Geralt keeps quiet, though the relief that floods through him when Vesemir introduces himself is overwhelming. There are four of them left - six including Aiden and Coen - and Jaskier has fucked them all except for Vesemir. Which is little consolation when Geralt is on the wrong side of that list.

Not that he cares who the bard fucks, because if he was going to start worrying about it, he should have started a long time ago. But these are Geralt's friends, his family - the only people he has in the world. And Jaskier is willing to take each of them to bed while Geralt is where? Risking his life for a town full of people who won't appreciate it come morning? Sitting alone in their room at an inn? Walking the Path alone? It doesn't matter because there's nothing he can do to change this, and he has no right to be upset with Jaskier about whose bed he chooses to fall into.

But he hurts in a way he can't quite express, and while the others open a bottle of vodka and pull out their cards, Geralt slips out of the main hall and up to his room. He's already had too much to drink and his head is reeling with the effects of it. He'd like to sit and play with the rest of them, but he can't bear the thought of seeing them all together, thinking about how each one of them would have seduced Jaskier and taken him apart.

How often has it happened? When? If he goes upstairs now, will Jaskier wind up in one of their beds tonight instead of his? Lambert and Aiden already offered. The thought hurts more than it has any right to and Geralt tamps it down, shoving the door to his room a little too hard.

Jaskier doesn't come to bed that night.

The next day is no better. When the others are out in the yard, Geralt finds a corner of the keep that's crumbling and he sets himself to work patching it up. There's so much to do and he's glad for the chance to escape everyone's company for a little while. But eventually, Eskel comes to find him for supper and Geralt has to drag himself away from his task.

He drinks all the way through supper and after, when the others are gathered around doing whatever it is - Geralt is steadfastly ignoring all of them - he finishes off a second bottle of vodka. It doesn't matter because no one seems worried about what he's doing, but when he gets up to go to bed, Coen calls for him to join them.

"Your bard was just telling us-" he starts, but Geralt just scowls and cuts him off.

"Hardly say he's mine," he slurs, and when Eskel looks up at him there's a dawning realization on his face. And Geralt hates it because it means he didn't know, means Gerlt has less reason to be angry about this. And he wants to be angry.

He starts away, but he trips over something on the floor. He tries to correct himself, but then Jaskier is there, ducking under his arm and pushing him upright.

"I've got you," he whispers and Geralt just grunts, but he’s too tired, too numb to protest.

Jaskier helps him up to his room, uncharacteristically quiet, and helps him out of his clothes, much to Geralt's irritation and embarrassment. Geralt is asleep as soon as he hits the bed.

He's not sure if it's very late or very early when he's awoken by the creak of the bedroom door, but most of the alcohol is out of his system now and he just feels very stupid and very embarrassed. When he leans up and recognizes Jaskier's form in the doorway, both feelings intensify and he throws an arm over his face.

Jaskier is undeterred. He climbs right up on the bed and straddles Geralt's hips before draping himself over his chest.

"Look at me," he breathes and Geralt can smell the liquor on his breath. He doesn't move. "Geralt," Jaskier says softly, "you know it didn't mean anything when I was with them, right?" Geralt says nothing and so Jaskier continues. "Sometimes I just like big guys who could just as easily kill me as fuck me, It's a part of that nonexistent survival instinct you keep talking about."

And yet, Geralt thinks, not me. He wants to ask why he's not good enough, why everyone else but not him, but he can't bring himself to uncover his eyes, much less speak.

"It's nothing, honestly-"

"I don't care who you fuck, Jaskier."

"And yet you're up here all alone and you've barely looked at me since we got here." He brushes a stray strand of hair from Geralt's face and sighs. "Either you're disgusted by me or you're jealous and I simply can't bear the idea that you'd hate me for this. Tell me it's not that." Geralt huffs but says nothing.

Jaskier shuffles up further so they're chest-to-chest and he ducks his head down next to Geralt's ear.

"If you want me to," he breathes, "I'll fuck you too. I think about it all the time, you know. Fantasizing about climbing into your lap and fucking myself on that magnificent cock of yours. You do know why I don't, right?"

"Please," Geralt grits out, "enlighten me." Jaskier's lips brush against the shell of his ear and Geralt shudders despite himself.

"Because I love you too much for that, darling. Because as much as I would love it and as much as you deserve to be fucked nice and proper, I couldn't bear to have you once and never again." Jaskier sighs and buries his face into Geralt's neck, humming softly and pressing kisses into his skin.

Heat rolls up the back of Geralt's neck unbidden but he keeps quiet, unsure of how to respond. In the silence, Jaskier falls asleep, one hand still curled around the side of Geralt's neck. But Geralt remains awake, staring up at the ceiling from under his arm and he knows there's no way he'll be falling asleep tonight now.

In the morning, Jaskier is, unsurprisingly, missing so Geralt drags himself out of bed and makes for the balcony. He isn't ready to face the others quite yet, especially not if they know he's the only one Jaskier hasn't been with. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans against the railing, listening to the sounds of the wind in the trees and water running a few miles off.

He's been sitting there for some time, silent in the cool morning air when he hears the door open again behind him. He pricks his ears, listening for any sign of who it is, but Jaskier's scent hits him first. It's tainted with something he's never smelled on the bard before and as Jaskier approaches, coming to stand next to him, he realizes it's nervousness.

"Wasn't sure if you'd still be here," he says and Geralt shrugs, readjusting to lean on his forearms.

"It's my room."

"Right, of course. I er, I guess I owe you an explanation-"

"You don't owe me anything, Jaskier, you can sleep with who you wish."

"I mean about what I said last night."

"You don't-" Geralt starts but Jaskier cuts him off.

"Before you start telling me what I do and don't want or feel, I want you to know I mean it." Jaskier hesitates just for a brief moment before he sighs and turns back to Geralt, "and I won't' take it back just because you don't believe it." He crosses silently to stand next to Geralt, leaning against the railing so only inches separate them.

"I didn't even know you when I met Coen, not really. It was just after we parted ways the first time." When Geralt doesn't respond, he continues. "Lambert was a year or so later. The first time," he winces at this and Geralt does his best not to comment. "The second was a few years ago after you left me in Wyzima that one time."

"After we fought," Geralt remembers. Jaskier hums his assent. Geralt's chest tightens. They'd only fought that night because Jaskier had risked his life, stupidly, to try and interfere with a hunt. Geralt had only been trying to protect him and had, apparently, chased him right toward Lambert."

"Aiden was with him then." He doesn't elaborate but Geralt understands. After everything he's seen and heard Jaskier do over the years, a threesome with a pair of Witchers isn't really that far-fetched. He wants to ask about Eskel, but he doesn't have the strength.

Of all the Witchers that ever called Kaer Morhen their home, Eskel is the most like him in every way. Before Geralt's final trials, even Vesemir failed to tell them apart from time to time and the thought of Jaskier sleeping with him leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, makes him want to hurl himself off the balcony. Because he was there the whole time and Jaskier still found his way to Eskel instead.

"Eskel-" is the only word Jaskier gets out before Geralt stops him.

"I don't want to know when or why," he says, "just... how many times?"

"Just once. It was... too much. He reminded me of you." Jaskier turns his head just enough to look at him and Geralt doesn't face him, but he watches him out of the corner of his eye. "I never meant to hurt you, I didn't think it would. I didn't think you cared enough to-" he falters and drops his chin to his chest.

Geralt considers that. He knows Jaskier never means to hurt him, but it always seems to happen anyway and he's left to deal with the mess on his own. This is no different. Except Jaskier seems genuinely upset and after last night's confessions, Geralt isn't sure what to think. But Jaskier's voice keeps coming back to him, soft and certain against his ear I couldn't bear to have you once and never again.

"Why do you think it would never happen again?"

Jaskier turns with a start, shifting his whole body to face him. He considers Geralt's expression for a moment and huffs a humourless laugh.

"Really?" he asks, "like you don't already know. Geralt, when was the last time you let me touch you? Even in the bath, you flinch away from my touch. If we ever wound up in bed together, it could only happen by accident - a drunken mistake or something. I can't imagine you repeating the same mistake twice. Feels like a very un-Witchery thing to do." He turns away again with a deep exhale and Geralt considers his words carefully.

"What if it wasn't a mistake?"

"What if what wasn't?"

"Us," Geralt breathes and the word feels like tar on his tongue, tacky and thick.

"How could it not be?" Jaskier's voice sounds small and far away, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. "You've made it clear so many times how you feel about me."

"I lied."

"What about?"

Geralt takes a deep breath, turning to look at Jaskier and take in the pain on his face before resigning himself to the truth. "Everything," he whispers and at first he's not sure Jaskier even hears him, so he shifts, looks back out over the valley, and continues. "I hate that you were with them," he admits, "hate thinking about you with them." Geralt sighs and picks at a loose bit of stone on the underside of the railing. "Wish it had been me instead."

Jaskier moves and Geralt tries not to think about the fact that he's turning away, but then a soft hand lands on his shoulder. It takes everything in him not to flinch at the touch, especially now. He's already feeling raw and exposed and he's still feeling shitty from his hangover and lack of sleep, but he holds still for Jaskier because he's already come this far.

"Geralt," he says softly, "would you want me?" Jaskier's voice is light and unsteady in a way he's never heard before but he slides up behind him smoothly, letting his hands slip to Geralt's waist. “For more than just sex? For more than just one night?” He moves slowly, like a spooked animal, leaning into Geralt's space and pressing up against his back. Hot breath puffs against his neck and Geralt shuts his eyes, the rest of his senses trained on Jaskier. Lips brush against his skin and everything from the days before is forgotten, replaced by the simple touch of skin on skin and Geralt presses back against him.

"I'm yours, Geralt," he breathes, just above a whisper, "if you want me." Jaskier's hands slip from his waist, winding around his stomach and he holds him there, chin hooked over his shoulder and breathing against his neck. "I never meant to hurt you. You don't know what it's like to think your feelings aren't reciprocated." Geralt pauses.

"I do."

Jaskier's hands slip to his waist, turning him slowly and Geralt lets himself be moved, lets himself appreciate the softness of Jaskier's hands on him. Lets himself want it. But when Jaskier leans in, lips pressing lightly against his own, it feels wrong. As gently as he can, Geralt shrugs away from him, pulling out of Jaskier's grasp.

"I can't," he says, dropping his gaze to the floor beneath their feet. "I'm sorry. I can't."

"Okay," Jaskier breathes, but he sounds defeated and Geralt can smell the worry that overtakes him. "How can I fix this?"

"I just need time."

"Right. Of course. Why don't you come down to breakfast and we can talk later." Jaskier's fingers brush down his hip before falling away altogether and Geralt watches after him. It feels like an ending of sorts before anything could actually begin. And he delays following Jaskier down to the kitchen.

He does want him. Has wanted him for so long, but every time Jaskier looks at him all he can think of is whether he looked at the others like that, whether he touched them the same way. And he hates himself for it. He's watched Jaskier fling himself into the arms of countless strangers, so why is it that this matters so much to him?

It takes Geralt the better part of the day before he's able to face Jaskier again and when he does, he finds him in the guest room, leaning over the balcony. He's thought about it as much as he dares to and come up with nothing, but he can't just ignore Jaskier for the rest of his life. Not especially, when Jaskier hasn't done anything wrong.

Jaskier turns as soon as he hears Geralt approaching, pulling up a soft, if not restrained smile. It jabs at something deep in Geralt's chest and he forces his feet to move forward, leaning over next to Jaskier against the railing.

"Was there anyone else?" he asks, "anyone I don't know about?"

"One," he says simply and something in Geralt breaks at his easy response. Jaskier wants to make this better and Geralt hates how he feels about it because nothing is actually wrong. "I don't remember his name, from the bear school. He was the last."

"I-" Geralt starts, "I hate that they were with you and I wasn't." His chest constricts with the confession and Jaskier turns to him. "But you didn't do anything wrong. You're allowed to make your own decisions, Jaskier, even if I don't like them."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You asked what you can do and I don't have an answer for you." He shuts his eyes as the bitter scent of fear hits his nose. "Stay?" he asks, "tonight. With me?"

"I thought you didn't want me- I thought I-"

"I can't stop thinking about you with them," Geralt admits, "but pushing you away isn't going to help." For the first time, Jaskier perks up, glancing up at him.

"Then let me help. Let me replace those thoughts with new ones." He presses up close, sliding a hand over Geralt's cheek. "As soon as you're ready."

"You'll stay tonight?"

"If it'll help, of course."

[beeexx]

A little Tarlos moment fron 2x09

Read on ao3

TK’s headache has moved further down from his forehead, to settle like a blanket of pain wrapped over his eyes instead. It makes sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair all the more worse, the bright light doing nothing other than adding to his growing discomfort and slight nausea. He is tapping his leg, the sound bouncing off the quiet sleepy room, and he thinks that the only reason Marjan hasn’t whacked him to make it stop is because she’s still pitying him over his brief spell in a room similar to the one Judd is in for a concussion that still hasn’t completely gone away. He moves his head between his legs, closes his eyes to try and drown out some of the blinding lights and breathes through his nose. 

He keeps bouncing his leg though.

TK hates hospitals. He has many reasons for disliking them but he’s never had to spend a night on the edge of his seat, worried sick for people he cares about before, not in this capacity at least and it’s making him feel sick.

The worst thoughts rush through to the surface unbidden. What if he never gets to see either one of them again, hear them laugh, joke around with Judd, dinner at their place every other Sunday. What if Judd doesn’t make it? What if Grace dies? What if -

“Hi, you okay?” It’s Carlos of course, back from his coffee run, who gently places a hand on his shoulder. TK tenses for a moment, caught off guard and suddenly ready to bolt right out of his seat. He can’t fully tamper down his reaction and Carlos notices of course. TK thinks he’s probably frowning and it doesn’t take long for Carlos to start to shuffle around until he’s sitting on the ground in front of TK, coffee cup left forgotten on the chair. TK opens his mouth-

“Don’t tell me you’re fine, it’s very obvious that you aren’t.” Carlos chastises making TK look up from the ground he’s been staring holes at. His lip twitches though and he nods.

“Yeah, I won’t.” He promises and it makes Carlos’ worry lines less prominent for a moment. His hair is still a little sleep tussled, a few strands of curls at the back Carlos spends ages on each morning to lie flat are now loose and he looks tired, he is probably as tired as TK feels. 

It’s been just a few days since the kidnapping and TK’s gotten used to having a particularly sort of nasty headache as his daily companion since then, ruining both his days and nights with spells of pain that won’t go away. Well, it’s probably ruined Carlos’ nights too, judging by the growing circles underneath his eyes, and TK’s constant tossing and turning every time they’re in bed. It’s been a few days of bad sleep and lounging around the house with Carlos worrying. It makes TK feel really bad, he hates it when Carlos worries about him. 

Both he and Carlos had however gotten their best night’s sleep in days when the call came through, waking them both and sending TK into a near panic attack when he heard what had happened. He’s strung so ridiculously tight he’s scared he’s going to snap in half and he goes back to bouncing his leg, trying to distract from his discomfort, averting his eyes.

“Hey, no shutting me out.” Carlos gently cups his chin and forces him to meet his eyes, thumb stroking up and down in comforting motions, eyes kind and understanding. TK sighs but he nods.

“Sorry.” His voice cracks and he clears his throat, trying to get the lingering thickness away. He looks away for a moment, sees Mateo is asleep with his head resting on Paul’s shoulder while Paul is reading, frowning slightly as his eyes move across the text, flipping pages now and then. Marjan left with Tommy a while back to go do something TK isn’t sure of exactly and he hasn’t seen his dad for a while either. They are all somewhere near of course, lurking, in case something changes.

“I’m scared.” TK keeps his voice down though, just in case. Carlos nods and moves his hands to cover TK’s thighs, pressing gently down on his right leg to stop the movement. It’s an involuntary reaction on TK’s end that he stops, the effect of Carlos’ touch on him, anchoring, calming him down almost immediately. Carlos gently squeezes his knee.

“I know baby, I am too. But the doctors are optimistic and we have to believe them.”

“They are cautiously optimistic and I don’t know what that means in doctor lingo but cautiously sounds like it’s not something to celebrate yet.” He mutters. 

“Maybe not, but it’s not cause for sitting here looking close to fainting either. I don’t think Judd would like it if you ended up in a hospital bed yet again after getting out of one so soon.”

“I would do it if it would make him wake up and bust my balls.” 

Carlos' mouth twitches.

“He’s going to wake up.” Carlos says with such conviction TK believes him.

“But what about Grace?” He whispers, dread filling his stomach. Grace with her kind eyes, easy smiles, never ending patience and generous support TK’s not realised he’s cherished this much until she’s suddenly been hurt, with the outlook not seeming good. He is scared, terrified even that she might not make it. He doesn’t know what it would do to Judd if that was to happen. Carlos grows serious and his eyes travel to the room she is in, sadness passing over his features. With Michelle gone a lot Carlos and Grace had formed an easy friendship to fill up that empty space, and so it wasn’t totally unusual that when TK came home after shifts to find Grace and Carlos out on the patio together, drinking lemonade and chatting away, smiles wide and whatever task they had said they would do, long forgotten. It’s not just TK it pains to see Judd and Grace hurt, it pains Carlos just as much and TK immediately reaches forward, cupping Carlos’ cheek and leaning his forehead on his, offering his comfort up like it’s second nature. They both exhale, breathing through it together. 

“It’s going to be okay, it has to.” Carlos says quietly and gives himself over to the worry for a moment before he pulls himself together, pushing the worry down. TK knows compartmentalising like Carlos can do is something that isn’t always the healtihest of coping mechanisms. Right now though, TK isn’t going to say anything, god knows he has a terrible track record of bad ways to deal with things, and he wishes at this moment that he could do it too, push it down and focus on something else. 

“The doctors say Judd is going to wake up but it will be a few hours until then, so we’re going to have to believe that everything is going to be okay. In the meantime why don’t we go home and shower and change clothes.” He suggests.

“Not to sleep?”

“I’m not aiming that high today, I don’t think either of us will be able to do that. But you don’t look too good right now and it’s worrying me a little, so instead of checking you into this hospital myself I suggest we go back to mine and recharge for a moment and come back with food for everyone. I’m sure they’ll all need it.”

It’s a distraction, probably as much for Carlos as it is for TK, but it’s a distraction born out of kindness and a big heart, the need to do something other than sit here and worry sick. Carlos, TK has learnt during this year, is the kind of person that needs to do something, he’ll feel absolutely useless sitting still. His brain works best when he’s doing things while TK tends to be the other way around, shutting down, unable to do anything other than freezing, standing still in his growing anxiety, until everything boils over and the urge to either get high or do something almost as equally stupid gets too much and he can’t stop it, sending him down bad paths. 

So he takes the opportunity and nods. Carlos gets to his feet and holds his hand out for him. TK takes it and gently and carefully Carlos pulls him to his feet and wraps an arm around him immediately. For a moment TK snuggles close, nosing at Carlos’ neck before he moves his head away, focusing on walking instead.

“How’s your head?”

“Sore.” He admits out loud and Carlos frowns. “It’s feeling more like a migrain though so maybe it’s just stress?”

“Maybe, do you want an ice pack?” TK thinks of saying no but he isn’t looking forward to getting into the car with the raging monster banging against his eyelids so he nods. Carlos gently kisses his forehead, squeezes his hand before he walks away, leaving TK alone in the mostly deserted hallway, with his thoughts again. 

Being a firefighter has made TK somewhat immune to certain high risk situations, gruesome injuries, fright so visceral people become unpredictable, or shock so silent it feels it lasts for days unable to break free of, and death too, to some extent at least. His dad’s cancer, which had been a suffocating presence, expanding each day inside of TK’s ribcage, making it impossible to focus on anything other than it, giving him little room to exist outside of the anxiety and constant worry. Tim more recently, which had been quick and taking the breath out of him, slamming straight into TK like a block of concrete, catching him unaware. 

His own overdose is a reminder that it takes different shapes.

And then this. Relentless, big, sudden. Impossible to escape. Scary.

They all wear their worry on their faces and clinging desperately to hope that feels like it’s dimming with each moment he stands here. 

He twists the string of Carlos’ APD hoodie, the first thing he had gotten his hands on when they were rushing to get here in the middle of the night. It was a few hours ago now and there hasn’t been an update for a while now, other than that they can only wait which anyone knowing him should be aware he’s terrible at. 

Carlos comes back shortly after, holding the promised ice pack, TK looks behind him at a nurse with red cheeks and a bright smile as she watches them. 

“Carlos Reyes did you flirt with a nurse to get me this?” But he accepts it gratefully and presses it to his face, exhaling in relief at the cold seeping onto his clammy skin. 

“I charmed her more likely, by talking about my very cute but bratty boyfriend.”

“Yeah I’ve changed my mind, I don’t care how you got it, I’m just happy that you did.” Carlos snorts and ruffles his hair. 

They drive back and Carlos helps TK up the stairs before he disposes of him gently onto the bed. When he goes to leave, TK tugs him back, holding tightly onto his hand.

“Where are you going?” He sounds small, he feels small right now.

“Just to get some water, I’ll be right back -” But TK shakes his head, moves the pack of ice away and pulls harder on Carlos’ hand until he gets the hint and climbs into the bed. TK pulls him close, arms wounding around his neck and tucks his face into Carlos’ neck. Carlos' hands come to rest on his waist, big and strong, secure around TK. He feels the heath of them through the shirt he is wearing. He can feel Carlos’ heartbeat against his ribcage too, riverbating through him.

Still here. Still alive. 

TK is used to danger. 

But he isn’t used to this kind of danger, when it feels deeply personal, like an attack. 

And it’s all so sudden, after Carlos’s suspension that has luckily been lifted but had given him enough stress and worry making TK wish he could march into Carlos’ precinct and yell at his boss that one of their best officers deserved better. It comes too soon after he was taken hostage and hurt, the wound hasn’t even begun to heal and it’s been roughly torn open again making TK feel so goddamn unsteady, the fear he’s suddenly been slammed with so tangible as it presses down on him from all sides. He feels he’s been edging closer and closer to a panic attack all night and the only thing that hasn’t sent him completely over the edge is having Carlos near. 

But he’s also so goddamn scared suddenly. He’s suddenly terrified of losing Carlos. A car accident, those happen so often and maybe TK’s been naive but this has never felt like such a palpable threat to him before, until now. Until Judd and until Grace. 

“Talk to me?” Carlos whispers, forcing TK out of his thoughts for a moment and TK hugs him closer, biting down the tears that have come unwillingly. 

“You can never leave me.” The words come pouring out of him and his voice breaks, unable to be kept steady. He bites down hard on his lip but an audibly sniff escapes and when Carlos tries to move his head away TK hugs him tighter, not wanting any space left between them.

Carlos is quiet for a moment, but no longer than that. He takes his hands away from TK’s waist and wraps them gently around TK’s wrists to gently tug them away from his neck so he can look at him. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks and takes TK’s hands in his, holding them delicately, stroking his thumbs soothingly across TK’s skin. TK angles them slightly against Carlos’ chest, closer to his ribcage, where he can feel the thumping of Carlos’ heart underneath his shirt. It comforts him, the only steady rhythm to latch onto at the moment, to try and steady his own breathing, copying the unwavering rise and fall of Carlos’ chest. 

“I don’t know…” TK whispers, unable to meet Carlos’ eyes. He focuses on his and Carlos’ tangled hands, trails the blue veins with his eyes, Carlos’ slender and long fingers, trying to find the right words, while also buying some time. 

“No?” Carlos gently pushes and TK shakes his head. “TK.” Carlos sighs before he cups TK’s cheek and angles it up so he can meet his eyes. TK blinks a few times to clear his watery eyes and Carlos wipes a stray tear away with his thumb, expression stricken, like it gets when he wants so badly to help but doesn’t know what to do. 

“When I was taken hostage…” He begins, clears his throat a few times, can’t bear watching Carlos upset. “I didn’t really stop to consider how awful it was for you during those hours, and I haven’t been able to grasp the intent completely behind your worrying these few days and now it makes me feel like such an ass. But I understand it now too, what happened to Judd and Grace, it could happen to us too and it’s so scary, so scary Carlos, what if -” He stops, gulps down more tears and bites his wobbling lip hard. 

“Hey, hey.” Carlos says gently and TK’s eyes snap to him. They are sad, but determined too. “It could, but even so I will always promise to fight to get back to you.”

“I wish you could promise me you won’t leave me or that I could promise that nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“Well knowing you, letting you out of my sight has proven to be a massive mistake, I swear you’re the most accident prone person I know.” TK wetly chuckles and Carlos’ mouth twitches, the joke easing the tension between them.

“I get scared too, all the time…” Carlos confesses and TK searches his face, reaches out automatically to smooth over the worryline on his forehead, itching to kiss it away.

“Yeah?” TK asks. Carlos nods.

“Yeah, all the time. Especially where you are concerned. But I do think it’s only normal with our jobs and so on. Just… I don’t know, try and be more careful?” The frown grows into a wry little smile and maybe if TK wasn’t so shook from earlier he would have joked it away, but he nods seriously instead.

“I promise. I will always come back, always. Even if I leave.” It’s a painful reminder of TK walking out on Carlos a few months back, still making TK feel ashamed of how he acted. But things are different between them now and walking away from Carlos and from everything they have built together and are going to continue building, that is not an option anymore. “Good.” Carlos whispers and kisses his nose making TK smile. “I will always come back too. Always. I will fight every day to make that promise true.”

“Me too.” TK promises, takes their intertwined hands and kisses the promise into their hands, hoping that the day will never come where he doubts it, doubts them and their future. 

“We’re going to be okay.” Carlos promises and TK closes his eyes and rests his forehead on Carlos’, slowly starting to accept it. 

“Yeah.” TK whispers. 

“And so is Judd and Grace.” 

TK isn’t fully there yet where he dares believe it to be true, but he isn’t giving up hope that it’s all lost either. 

“So, how about a shower?” 

TK opens his eyes, yawns before he stretches, pops his back and nods.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

Carlos helps him to his feet and in the bathroom they undress each other before they get in together. TK hums in content as the hot water washes over him and with it the last doubts he has about the future, down the drain where it belongs. As soon as Carlos joins him inside TK walks close, presses his body to Carlos’. It’s not sexual, but it’s a need, to have him near, to let the calmness of Carlos’ wash over him and bring with it a comfort only Carlos can bring out in him and judging by the harsh breath escaping Carlos’ he craves the contact almost as much as TK does. TK presses a soft kiss to Carlos’ heart and it grows comfortable between them. That’s until Carlos decides to squirt shampoo loudly on top of TK’s head, breaking them out of the moment. TK’s glare turns into a laugh and Carlos’s eyes sparkle, so very much alive and TK’s insides flutter.

They shower for longer than what they had planned and when they do make it back to the hospital, carrying food from a place Carlos knows to be one of Grace’s favourite takeaways he feels better, more hopeful and willing to believe that things will work out. Carlos’ hair is messy from TK running his fingers through it, but his arm is secure around TK’s waist and TK’s leaning on his shoulder, watching their family help unpack the bags.

And then Judd wakes up.

[heresathreebee]

Brackish and Briny Waters (five)

[Ralph Lamont x Female Reader]

Summary: Ralph apologizes and you've got baby brains, but sometimes life does nothing but kick you down. Previous Masterlist Next

Tag(s): 16+ | 1.7k words | more angst, baby fever, alcoholism, ghostly vibes

AN: GODDAMN Part 5 took me a lifetime to finish. As always no beta readers just poorly side eyeing this by myself and hoping it makes sense

THE NEXT MORNING

You barely stir when you hear the door open. You've all but forgotten last night, and yet you flinch when Ralphie tries to cuddle with you. He sighs somewhere near your ear and hugs you from behind anyways, lips brushing the nape of your neck and breath fanning over your back as he simply lies there, quiet as the grave. 

There's no bruise but you can still feel his hand gripping your arm from last night. "You're being a huge dick…" 

"... I know." 

That is not good enough. You roll over to face him and watch his face twist when he notices the tract marks of dry tears on your face. He swallows and almost unconsciously takes your hand, smoothing his thumb over the back of your palm in a way that was meant to comfort him rather than you. 

"I'm sorry." He opens his mouth again but he flounders for words. After a deep breath he continues. "We can't call Reagan. Because he won't do anything for us…" 

You wait impatiently for him to explain. 

"Sweetheart, if we called Reagan last night, he would have fucking laughed at us. It is step one down that slippery slope to the couple who cried wolf." He put a hand on your shoulder and looked you in the eye, "do you really think he would have done something?" 

You think about it. If Ralph hadn't stopped you from calling him, what would you have said to Reagan? 

I smelled exhaust fumes. Not an emergency, he would say. 

I think he found us. What do you want me to do about it, too late now, he would ask.  

We're in danger. I'll send a squad upstate, they should be there in 4 hours, he would joke. 

"It was real," you insist. "I smelled fumes." 

"I know. I believe you." 

You squint at him threateningly and he doesn't give an inch. He doesn't seem like he's mocking you. 

Ralph could be an asshole, but Reagan was infinitely worse. At least one of them gave a shit about your safety. The realization Ralph was right scared you more than anything. You were alone in this… 

Well, alone together. 

You sigh and bury your face in his neck. Your hair is tangled as shit and probably tickling his face, but your husband simply wraps you up in a tight embrace and holds you against him. It's all the apology you need. 

END OF THE FIRST MONTH

Adjusting to your new life hit you like a sack of bricks early on a Monday morning. You woke up from a dream where you still lived in your tiny little apartment two minutes walk from everything. In a reality which felt more like a fever dream, Ralph was late for work, donning a tie and tweed jacket and kissing you goodbye for the day. 

You never realized how much space there was in the new master bedroom. In the apartment, a queen sized bed nearly touched the walls and barely left room to creep around two night stands and a dresser, but in the new house you had room to lay on the floor and stretch, maybe put another piece of furniture in here like a bookshelf or something. 

And the whole damn house was like that. You had an entire second floor to claim as your own! There is almost too much space… too much space for just the two of you. 

God there's that thought again drifting into your mind unbidden, unfurling like a fern at the first droplet of sunshine. How many people does it take to turn a house into a home? Three should be plenty, your mind offers. 

You busy yourself with measurements, regrouting the loose tiles in the kitchen floor, and scrubbing the blackened hell out of that downstairs bathroom. It seems to come to life beneath your hands and you can feel yourself getting excited to show guests the improvement. 

The thoughts of turning your little twosome family into three persist over and over until you can't stand it any longer. Maybe it's finally time… 

Ralph's late getting home by 5 minutes instead of 5 hours but he still looks tired. No mud tracks on his pants or hard set eyes. He's halfway up the stairs before you realize he's probably going to bed early. 

"Hey!" 

Ralph stops like it pains him. His head sags and his hold on the railing is tight like he'll fall if he lets go. The way he's wobbling he might. He is barely able to meet your eyes as he glances over his shoulder and when he does he simply grunts. 

"I made dinner," you squeeze your hands together behind your back, "angel hair pasta and that sauce you love." 

Ralph's eyes flicker in thought. "Be down in a second." 

You wait nervously to see if he does come down. What if this is a bad idea? What if he doesn't take you seriously? Oh god what if he hates it, what if he calls you an idiot for even considering it? 

Ralph does come back downstairs, hair wild from running his fingers through it. He seems to gain a small amount of energy while eating, not wanting to talk himself but asking how your day has been going. 

You're definitely rambling right now. Ralph listens and listens, chuckling along but at some point he grows concerned and envelopes your hand with a worried expression on his face. "Jesus, I've never heard so many words come out of your mouth at once, it's like you're writing a dissertation over there. Are you OK, baby?" 

You snap your mouth shut. God, you hadn't even come close to talk about kids for all your rambling. And then there was that weird smell… 

Your blood runs cold as you recognize it. You lean a little closer to Ralph and he almost instinctively flinches away. If there's one thing you are sure of, one thing you could swear on god– Ralph Lamont has never flinched away from a kiss before. So he has something to hide. And that something has a sharp scent and explains his slow reactions and tired eyes better than anything else could. 

"Have you… have you been drinking?" 

It's the way he can't meet your eyes when you ask him. You know. It's beyond out of character, so much so that it's confusing and a little frightening for you. 

A little drink here and there is, to you, to be expected especially considering the wealth of your new company. So why hide it? Is there something else he's not telling you?

You suddenly feel sick and too hot, ripping your hand away from his and getting up to leave the table. 

He knows you get in your head sometimes and practically yells your name to stop you. "I'm… I don't know why I…" 

Ralph sighs and buries his face into his hands, ashamed. All this suspense is twisting knots in your stomach. You sit back down gingerly, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. 

"Ralph," you warn, "you had better start explaining yourself right now before I lose it." 

Ralph stares a hole into the table and worries his lip. The truth is he doesn't know what to say because he doesn't know why he did it. The students are easy, you are easy. Even in the toughest of times, at his lowest, he didn't drink so… what the fuck was coming over him?, he asked himself. 

Something clicked. It rolled like fire in his belly given dry wood, smoking curling to the top of his throat and out of his ears. "They hate me." 

"Who? Who hates you?" 

"Everyone." 

You looked him in the eye for the first time tonight and saw something dark looking in there. It makes you uneasy. "What makes you think they hate you, baby?" 

Ralph's grip on his fork tightens until his knuckles are white before he gingerly sets the dishware down and deflates. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a sardonic grin. 

"You wouldn't understand… and how could you? You never leave the house." He looks at you and there's a growing instability rising in his movements. "You… you don't see it. It started out as little nothings that I could ignore because it didn't matter that they didn't like me: I was new.  

"Then it became lots of these little nothings. Staring and whispering and hushed silences. Tip toeing language and poking and prodding and testing me and my limits and it just… it just… it never got better…" 

Rumors. It dawned on you that his frustration seemed intimately familiar to you as you had had to change schools once or twice due to a few terrible rumors that snowballed and got way out of hand. And you can imagine the sort of rumors that accompany a man with little interest in making friends who has a wife nobody knows anything about. 

If you wanted to stay here long, you would need to change a few minds. You set aside your fear for a moment and make him look at you. You can see the unshed tears in his eyes and feel pity for him. 

"I want to do that dinner party," you announce. "With all that's gone on, you probably didn't have the grand introduction you deserve. Let me show them how much you mean to me." 

Ralph's shaking his head but he already knows you'll win this fight. For him it feels like begging for something he doesn't even want. He agrees because he already promised you could when you were ready and you needed to find new friends asap. 

His sleep that night is fitful and the room's shadows seem to reach out like claws seeking his immortal soul. When the haze of whiskey finally dies down in his system he sleeps dreamless and wakes to feel somehow more hollow with despair than before. 

Ralph Lamont has the distinct feeling things are going to get a hell of a lot worse before anything gets better…

@werwulfy @fundamentally-lazy @escape-your-grape @mimiscappinisideblog @go-commander-kim

[whimperwoods]

Part 7 of Gozukk and Anna.

First part is here. Second part is here. Third part is here. Fourth part is here. Fifth part is here. Sixth part is here. At this point I should probably just make a masterpost, but there’s a 50/50 chance I’ll be too lazy.

tw: slavery (past), tw: past rape/noncon, tw: past abuse, tw: fantasy racism, tw: anxiety/fear

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****

Anna woke with a start and immediately noticed how soft the furs were underneath her. Her heart leapt into her chest. No! She pulled in on herself, listening for Master Kir or one of the other men beside her, but the only sound was light snoring some ways off, not close enough for whoever it was to reach for her in the dark.

She didn’t immediately recognize the tent or the furs or the sleeping mat under her, but she knew she was alone, and she wouldn’t stay that way if she didn’t move now.

Clambering to her feet, she blinked to clear her eyes. She was - she was - that was right. She was away from the caravan. Her breathing had been short and ragged, but relaxed a little bit, though she couldn’t calm her heart. That was right. She was with the orc chief, now. Gozukk. He must not have come back from dinner, or perhaps he just hadn’t been drunk enough to break his word that he’d sleep in the other half of the tent.

Her hands were shaking, and she clenched them into fists, pulling her arms in toward her chest and creeping forward to peer through the doorway out of Gozukk’s bedroom.

The orc man was a large, blanketed lump on the rug where she’d sat earlier, his back turned toward her as he lay on his side, body curled in a gentle curve. Faint moonlight streamed through an open vent in the roof, and she wondered if orcs could see in the dark as well as she could.

“That’s the best thing about filthy little half-elves,” Master Kir’s voice echoed, unbidden, in her mind, sinking down into a dark, hoarse whisper she’d learned to hate even more than a raised voice. “Even in the dark, you can see exactly what I’m about to do to you.” He’d laughed, when he said it, and the memory sent spikes of terror down her spine, even though she could move, this time. “Are you afraid, mongrel?”

She was afraid, then and now and always, nearly blind with it, the fear a lump in her throat, and she had to get out of here, because at least if she were sleeping by a fire outside - by a fire outside - she - she - Her pulse was fluttering in her neck, too fast, and she could hear the rush of her own fear in her ears, blanking out the orc chieftain’s soft snores and distracting her from even her own thoughts.

She tried to creep around the outside of the room, to stay away from her new master, but then she knocked into the table she’d knelt beside yesterday, the corner of it banging into her hip and the cartographer’s tools laid neatly across it rattling as the whole table shook.

Gozukk stirred. Her eyes teared up as she froze in place. Maybe - maybe he hadn’t woken?

He sat up, his hair mussed with sleep, and she collapsed instantly down to her knees, lowering her head and hoping that he would go back to sleep without looking for her, and that he wouldn’t be angry if he did.

She could feel an electric prickling in her skin, running up and down her sides, and she bit back a sob. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. She’d just wanted to get outside, to get - to get where, exactly? She’d wanted to get outside and she couldn’t even explain herself, couldn’t tell him why, and what if he tried to make her? What if he tried to make her?

His footsteps were coming toward her, and she curled farther into herself, shrinking down and wrapping her arms tightly around herself, squeezing her eyes shut tight and tucking her head down.

A soft thud told her he’d knelt in front of her again, like before, and it was - it was - a sob broke out of her throat even though she couldn’t make her mind work to figure out why.

Gozukk said something soft and sad in orcish, something she didn’t understand, but that sounded like it was meant for her. His voice was calm and gentle, quiet, but roughened only by sleep, with none of the harshness of the whispers in her memory. “Anna,” he said, his rich baritone getting clearer and warmer as he talked, “I need to know if you’re alright. Did you hurt yourself?”

Her hip stung, almost certainly going to bruise where she’d hit the table, but as long as she didn’t think about it, she doubted she’d notice. She shook her head no.

She could see his hands moving toward her, but then they stopped, hovering in the air, his fingers half-twitching in her direction before he pulled his hands back into his lap.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said, “Why don’t I help you find whatever you needed and we can both go back to bed? I don’t think I showed you where everything was. The latrines, I mean. Or extra water. Are you hungry?”

She looked up, as if seeing his face would make sense of things, and realized he could see the tears beading in her eyes when his brow furrowed, a little concerned line showing between his eyebrows.

He rose quickly, too quickly, and she flinched away, only for him to reach toward her again and stop himself again, an aborted motion too slow to be threatening, but that still made the lump in her throat tighten.

“Let me light a lamp,” he said, “Make the edges of the table a little clearer.”

She stayed on her knees, watching him as he retrieved a lamp and lit it, the flame inside lighting his face and revealing the green tone to his skin, the tusks that cast shadows across his skin. She shivered, but the tears hovering in her eyes didn’t fall, and she didn’t feel more tears coming. Her arms relaxed around her, not holding quite so tight.

When he came back to her, he slid onto his knees again, getting down to eye level before he put down the lamp. He had a handkerchief in the other hand, which he offered to her when he saw her eyes on it. “Here - dry your eyes. It’s alright.”

She did as ordered, wiping away the tears she hadn’t even cried this time, and then clenched her hand around the handkerchief, not sure whether to give it back or whether it was too dirty now that she’d touched it.

“I should have asked what woke you,” he said, “Mazogga said you’d be having nightmares - as if she needed to tell me.” He smiled faintly, fondly, and she bit her lip, not sure if she should make up a nightmare when she’d really been too exhausted to have one, or if she should tell the truth.

“But it’s alright, either way,” he continued, “I can get you whatever you need or - we can do what Djaana always did when we were little. I always knew if a splashing noise woke me up from the women’s side of the tent, it was Djaana having had a nightmare.”

“Why was there splashing?” she asked, in spite of herself.

“She always needed to wash her face. But if it was a really bad one, like after our father died, Mother would wash her hair. Always took ages, but I think it helped. I don’t know. I mostly just -” he cut himself short, looking suddenly down at the lantern, “I had other ways of dealing with it.”

“Oh,” she said.

She needed to figure out what to say next, what would get her out of this situation, away from this man, back on her own.

“I don’t think I had a nightmare, but I, umm - I did need the privy,” she said, “But I can go myself. I don’t mean to keep you awake.”

Gozukk smiled softly. “It’s alright. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. You should hear Azzor snoring on a hunting or scouting trip. He rolls over at the wrong angle and you’d swear the whole camp was going to wake up. Not that we stray out that far too often.”

He rose to his feet, then offered her a hand. “Come on. I’ll show you the way.”

She took the offered hand tentatively, certain, if nothing else, that refusing it would be rude, but he was gentle as he helped her to her feet, and she found herself starting to calm down as she straightened up, her legs taking her weight without trouble even though she’d been afraid.

“Oh - Th-Thank you, Sir.”

“Just Gozukk is fine,” he said, his voice still gentle and warm, “Chief and Sir are for when there are strangers around.”

Walking behind him, with her feet under herself, felt safe, even as he held open the tent flap and she had to duck under his arm to get outside. In the full light of the moon, she could finally catch her breath. “Ok,” she said quietly, “Thank you, Gozukk.”

“It’s no trouble.”

She could sense his hand almost but not quite reaching for her elbow as he led her toward the latrine, but it pulled back, and he didn’t touch her.

She breathed again, feeling the tightness in her throat finally ease a little, her heartbeat settling back down.

Was she really not a stranger? That seemed like an odd thing, but something about it - something - she couldn’t catch it, couldn’t put words to the half-thought.

Gozukk indicated where she could find water, if she needed it, or food, though she said it was best not to snack outside of mealtimes without the healer’s say-so. He pointed out Djaana’s tent, and the midwife Mazogga’s, and the healer’s, as if she could go there any time she wanted, as if she might need to know on her own.

It felt - good. She still had her arms wrapped around herself, loosely, but she felt - good? Alright? At least alright.

The night air was colder than she’d expected, and the fire at the center of the camp was banked lower. Maybe she wouldn’t try to sleep outside after all, and wasn’t that a strange thought?

Gozukk didn’t accompany her all the way to the latrine, stopping when it was in clear view and pointing it out, before turning his back politely so she could walk there on her own.

Maybe - maybe she wouldn’t try to sleep outside.

“Thank you, again,” she said, fighting back the urge to add “Sir” and stepping away quickly so she wouldn’t lose her nerve and blurt it out anyway.

[wielderofmysteries]

Jace Beleren, Masculinity, and the Trans Experience

(This post is a Twitter thread I wrote in response to a Goblin Lore podcast episode called “Jace Beleren and Toxic Masculinity”.)

I feel I have a unique perspective on this topic as a trans man. Trans man Jace isn't my headcanon, but it's an interpretation I love. He's my favorite character of all time, and as a trans man, I feel like reading Jace's flaws as toxic masculinity isn't quite right.

There are several "pillars" of toxic masculinity that Jace doesn't have. He doesn't have the self-destructive emotional repression, worship of sex and violence, or desire to subjugate women and his peers that men who experience toxic masculinity have.

Even BEFORE Ixalan, Jace was an example of many positive masculine traits. He was curious and emotionally open. He wrongly believed he could make decisions for others, but he cared for people, wanted to protect them, and couldn't sit idly by when he knew people were in danger.

In Agents of Artifice, he financially provided for Kallist and Liliana, and in Magic Story invited the Gatewatch to live in his home. Jace wanted to heal Garruk, tried to stop his rampage and had a Hedron implanted in Garruk's shoulder to relieve the effects of the curse.

"I don't want to hurt you, Garruk."

"Lucky for me, I don't feel the same way."

"Garruk, this is not a fair fight. You've suffered enough. Please. Come with me."

[...]

Jace stood in thought. Garruk held him by the throat, could end his life in an eye blink, had already proven he was immune to Jace's illusions. Garruk laughed again. If Garruk was open to having friends, then Jace might have been a good one.

"You win," said Jace. "We will leave you alone. I will not seek you out. But please, if you change your mind, come find us on Ravnica. Something is still not right here. We can help you."

In "Revelation at the Eye" Jace tells Ugin that Zendikar isn't a puzzle to be solved, and that it didn't matter if killing the Eldrazi has consequences, there are real people on Zendikar fighting for their lives and he needs to help them.

"Zendikar isn't a puzzle to be solved," said Jace. "It's a place. It's somebody's home. And those people are out there, right now, fighting for their world and wondering if anybody's going to help them kill what's killing them."

He showed scenes of suffering, then—of families mourning the lost, of landscapes ravaged by Ulamog, of even the skies and seas teeming with the Eldrazi menace.

Ugin cocked his head. The hedron architecture of the chamber seemed to melt and flow, became a pattern of tessellating dragons mocking him from the walls.

"So certain," said Ugin, "and so young."

Ral Zarek tried to kill Jace and ruined his relationship with his close friend Emmara, but in "Project Lightning Bug", Jace forgives him. Jace is honest about his feelings with Ral even after Ral was openly rude to him.

"I don't remember home," Beleren said quietly, unbidden.

"What?"

"You talked about growing up in Ravnica. A lot of my memories from my childhood are gone. Chopped up in my head into a few impressions. Most of what I remember begins here, on Ravnica. I'll never have roots here the way you do, and I admit I'm off to other planes a lot. But I think of myself as Ravnican to the core, too."

In Kaladesh block he wanted Chandra to be able to confide in him, and didn't want to stay home when he heard she could be in trouble. He used his mind magic to help Nissa sleep when she had a sensory overload in the busy city.

Nissa looked up. Jace and Gideon were exchanging a look. Both glanced at her.

They stood as one.

Jace turned toward the coat room. "I'll head to Kaladesh. It should be easy for me to—"

Lavinia appeared in his path, one hand resting on the pommel her sword. "Again?" she said, in a weary, disappointed tone.

He frowned up at her. "You can't expect me to sit here and do paperwork!"

Across the streets, beyond the barricades, the Consulate's panharmonicons are still blaring "The Gremlin's Wedding March" at us on infinite repeat at double speed. They left them on all night, and after the moon set Nissa started crying, hands clamped over her ears.

[...]

Jace sat down with her. They talked a minute and his eyes flashed. She curled up in a big potted plant and didn't wake up until the sun fell on her.

But what does being a man mean to Jace Beleren? Well, take a look at his feelings towards Gideon. Jace saw Gideon as the male ideal. I think Jace admires (and is envious of) the way Gideon is a representation of positive masculinity.

Eyes widened, jaws set. They understood their task, he was certain of that. But were they actually prepared to perform it?

What would Gideon say?

Jace smiled. Of course.

"For Zendikar," he said, raising one fist in the air. It felt thin to him, lacking Gideon's armored fist, his baritone war cry, his iron conviction.

None of that mattered. The soldiers shouted as one voice, holding their weapons aloft.

"For Zendikar!"

Gideon is not violent or hypersexual. He's kind, not afraid to ask for help, a defender rather than an aggressor. The pillars of toxic masculinity are absent in both Jace and Gideon. So why does Gideon's mere presence make Jace insecure? I think that insecurity is dysphoria.

I'm only 5 feet tall. People treat me like a kid, think I need help, and certainly don't see me as a man because I'm very small. It feels bad knowing my looks don't inspire others or make them feel safe like big tall guys can.

Gideon is super tall, muscular, conventionally attractive. He's charismatic and a natural leader. Gideon's like a human lighthouse. Jace is average height, out-of-shape, often pale and sickly, and his telepathy makes people automatically distrust him.

It's easy to see why people follow Gideon's lead so easily rather than Jace's. As a trans man, I personally related to Jace's insecurity. He feels inadequate compared to Gideon.

"I'd rather stand," said Gideon.

Jace stood up. It was an error. He still had to crane his neck to look Gideon in the eye, and now the size difference between them was glaringly obvious. He hated feeling small. Hated it.

Jace wanting to lead the Gatewatch didn't come from a desire to dominate others and be an ~alpha male~, but from a desire for people to believe in him. What Jace really wants is to prove to himself and others that he's competent and that he can be trusted.

This vision appeared whenever the man was struggling at a task.

[...]

"Listen, you aren't really suited to this task. Let me handle it." The vision's voice was gruff but friendly.

It came off as condescending.

The man was annoyed.

"I can do it myself."

The hallucination sighed. "You and I both know you're not suited to this. Let me handle it, you go philosophize on the other end of the beach."

"I said I can do it myself." The man let his irritation reach his voice.

"No, you can't. I call the shots and execute, you stand to the side. That's how this works."

The man responded by throwing his hook at the hallucination. It went straight through the figure's eye and landed behind him on the sand.

The time he spends with Vraska is so good for him! I loved that [the podcasts hosts] talked about how he was finally happy to follow someone else's lead! He didn't need to be a leader, he needed someone to trust him. She respected and loved him and thought he was incredible for who he is.

Vraska looked him in the eye. "You're incredible. You know that, right?"

Jace returned her smile and felt his cheeks warming. "I do my best."

"Well, your best is incredible," Vraska said, turning toward the central tower and approaching a large gate on what appeared to be its back side.

Liliana never told Jace he was incredible.

Liliana would have scoffed. She would have made a dismissive joke, rolled her eyes, and called him a show-off. She would not bother to talk to him for days. She would consume the body of a demon with a crocodile's jaws and laugh over the sound of its flesh tearing off. She would do all sorts of things, but she would never call him incredible.

It was important for Jace to get that validation. Now he's not insecure about his appearance. It's not that he finally developed into someone who was caring. He was caring all along, but he was held back by insecurity about how others perceive him. He learned to love himself.

Despite all his good qualities and deeds he still felt insecure because it wasn't easy to visually see him as a "strong man". I think it's important to acknowledge positive masculinity even when the man in question isn't attractive or charismatic, and even if he makes mistakes.

As a trans person, Jace's experience reminded me of the struggle to "pass". It's frightening how easily insecurity can turn into toxic masculinity when you feel different from "real men". If you don't look the part, some people will just never acknowledge you.

Next to 'perfect' guys like Gideon, it's easy to see our own perceived weaknesses and shortcomings. Easy to feel resentment for it. But from this struggle comes the strive to be better men, to be confident in ourselves, and comfortable in our bodies.

There's SO much I wanted to talk about, like how Jace's trauma shaped his need for control, how the IRL gamer guys he was created to represent actually hate him, how he's a male victim of abuse by a female partner, etc but this thread is already terribly long.

TLDR; I think toxic masculinity as a reading of Jace is missing some perspective. The trans perspective. Not all insecurity men experience is toxic masculinity. Sorry I totally should have waited until part 2 was out, but I couldn't stop thinking about that episode.

There's a lack of trans men's voices in... basically everything, and this is something I think we should definitely be included in. I'm so grateful for the Vorthos community opening these kinds of discussions. Super excited for part 2 of the podcast!